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THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 


THE 

CROOKED  HOUSE 

BY 

BRANDON  FLEMING 


NEW  "YORK 

EDWARD  J.  CLODE 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 
EDWARD    J.    CLODB 


PRINTED   IN    TH3    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

HAPTER  PAGE 

I  A  STRANGE  RIDDLE  ......       9 

II    THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 19 

III  THE  ENDLESS  GARDEN 33 

IV  DESTRUCTION 45 

V    COPPLESTONE 53 

VI  THE  TRAIL  OF  CORPSES  .     ...    ...     65 

VII    TRANTER 71 

VIII     MRS.  ASTLEY-ROLFE 80 

IX    THE  DANSEUSE 83 

X     MR.  GLUCKSTEIN 85 

XI     THE  CLERGYMAN 87 

XII  MR.  BOLSOVER      .     .     .     .     .     .     .89 

XIII  THE  TRINITY  OF  DEATH      ....     92 

XIV  WITHOUT  TRACE      Y    .     .     ...   105 
XV  A  BUILDER  OF  MEN       .      .....   117 

XVI    A  TRIPLE  ALLIANCE 133 

XVII  MR.  GLUCKSTEIN  IN  CONFIDENCE  .     .   142 

XVIII  'THE  WIT  OF  THE  PINK  LADY  .      .      .151 

XIX  DETAINED  ON  SUSPICION      .     .     .      .159 

XX  THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  KILLER     .     .     .   176 

XXI    A  HASTY  FLIGHT 187 


2056505 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXII  TRANTER     ATTACKS     THE     CROOKED 

HOUSE 195 

XXIII  A  DUEL 203 

XXIV  THE  SECRET  OF  THE  HOUSE     .     .     .  220 
XXV    TRUER  COLORS 233 

XXVI  PROVIDING  FOR  THE  WORST      .     .     .241 

XXVII  THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  TRANTER     .  250 

XXVIII    IN  PURSUIT 259 

XXIX    ETHICS  OF  KILLING 262 

XXX  MONSIEUR  DUPONT'S  TASK      .     .     .  273 

XXXI    WHAT  THEY  HEARD 279 

XXXII    THE  BEAUTY-KILLER 288 

XXXIII  LAST  TRUTHS 291 

XXXIV  CONCLUSION 312 


THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 


THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

CHAPTER  I 
A  STRANGE  RIDDLE 

""m      JTONSIEUR      TRANTER!    A 

\/l     moment!" 

i  \  I  The    Right-Honorable   John 

Tranter  swung  round,  latch-key 
in  hand.  Behind  him,  an  enormous  figure 
emerged,  with  surprisingly  agile  and  noiseless 
steps,  from  the  shadow  of  the  adjoining  house 
— a  figure  almost  grotesque  and  monstrous  in 
the  dim  light  of  the  street  lamp.  The  very 
hugeness  of  the  apparition  was  so  disconcert- 
ing that  John  Tranter  drew  back  with  a  startled 
exclamation. 

"Good  Lord!  Monsieur  Dupont?  You  in 
London?" 

Monsieur  Dupont  described  circles  with  his 
country's  largest  silk  hat. 


io  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"I  in  London !  An  event,  my  friend,  in  the 
history  of  your  city !" 

He  laughed  softly,  and  replaced  the  hat  on 
his  head.  They  shook  hands  warmly. 

"This  is  a  Delightful  surprise,"  Tranter  said, 
turning  back  to  the  door.  "Come  in." 

"It  is  late,"  Monsieur  Dupont  apologized — 
"but  I  entreat  a  moment.  It  is  three  hours 
only  since  I  arrived,  and  I  have  passed  one  of 
them  on  your  doorstep." 

"An  hour?"  Tranter  exclaimed.  "But 
surely " 

Monsieur  Dupont  squeezed  himself  into  the 
narrow  hall  with  difficulty. 

"I  possess  the  gift  of  patience,"  he  claimed 
modestly.  "In  London  it  is  of  great  value." 

In  the  small  library  he  looked  about  him  with 
surprise.  The  plain,  almost  scanty  furniture 
of  Tranter's  house  evidently  did  not  accord 
with  his  expectations  of  the  residence  of  an 
English  Privy  Councillor.  Monsieur  Dupont 
sat  down  on  a  well-worn  leather  couch,  and 
stared,  somewhat  blankly,  at  the  rows  of  dull, 
monotonous  bindings  in  the  simple  mahogany 
bookcases. 


A  STRAN'GE  RIDDLE  n 

He  placed  the  drink  Tranter  mixed  for  him 
on  a  small  table  by  his  side,  accepted  a  cigar, 
and  puffed  at  it  serenely.  And  in  that  posi- 
tion, Monsieur  Victorien  Dupont  presented  a 
pleasing  picture  of  elephantine  geniality.  He 
was  so  large  that  his  presence  seemed  to  fill 
half  the  room.  His  great  face  was  one  tre- 
mendous smile.  His  eyes,  though  capable  of 
a  disconcertingly  direct  gaze,  were  clear,  and 
even  childlike.  His  English  was  perfect,  his 
evening-dress  faultless,  and,  though  obviously 
a  bon-viveur,  he  was  also  unmistakably  a  man 

with  a  purpose. 

"And  what  has  brought  you  to  London?" 

Tranter  asked,  sitting  opposite  to  him. 

"My  friend,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  "I  am 
here  with  a  remarkable  object.  I  have  come  to 
use  the  eyes  the  good  God  has  given  me.  And 
to  do  so  I  beg  the  assistance  of  the  great  posi- 
tion the  good  God  has  given  you." 

"I  hope,"  Tranter  returned,  "that  what  you 
require  will  enable  me  to  make  some  sort  of  re- 
turn to  the  man  who  saved  my  life." 

Monsieur  Dupont  waved  his  hands  in  a  gi- 
gantic gesture. 


12  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"To  restore  to  the  world  one  of  its  great 
men — it  was  a  privilege  for  which  I,  myself, 
should  pay!  The  service  I  ask  of  you  is 
small." 

"You  have  but  to  name  it,"  said  the  Privy 
Councillor. 

Suddenly  there  was  no  smile  on  Monsieur 
Dupont's  face.  Without  the  smile  it  was  a 
very  much  less  pleasant  face. 

"Two  years  ago,  in  my  own  country,"  his 
voice  acquired  a  new  snap,  "some  one  asked 
me  a  riddle." 

"A  riddle?"  Tranter  echoed,  surprised  at  the 
change. 

"A  very  strange  riddle.  Unfortunately,  I 
cannot  tell  you  what  it  was.  I  cannot  tell  any 
one  what  it  was.  I  undertook  to  find  the  an- 
swer. From  France  the  riddle  took  me  far 
away  to  another  country — and  there,  after  a 
year's  work,  I  found  half  the  answer.  The 
other  half  is  in  London.  And  I  am  in  London 
to  find  it." 

"This  is  interesting,"  said  Tranter,  smiling 


A  STRANGE  RIDDLE  13 

slightly  at  the  huge  Frenchman's  intense  seri- 
ousness. 

"You,  my  friend,  can  help  me." 

"I  am  at  your  service,"  the  other  promised. 

Monsieur  Dupont  half-emptied  his  glass,  and 
the  smile  began  to  reappear  on  his  face  in 
gradual  creases.  In  a  moment  the  shadow  had 
vanished.  He  laughed  like  a  jolly  giant. 

"Ah,  forgive  me!  I  had  almost  committed 
the  crime  to  be  serious.  It  is  a  fault  that  is 
easy  in  your  London." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  for  you?" 
Tranter  asked. 

"I  want,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  "to  be 
taken  with  you,  as  your  friend  from  Paris,  to 
one  or  two  society  functions — where  I  may  be 
likely  to  meet  .  .  .  what  I  seek." 

Tranter  was  somewhat  taken  aback. 

"Unconsciously,"  he  returned — "though  of 
course,  I  will  make  it  my  business  to  fulfill  your 
wishes — you  have  really  asked  me  a  difficult 
thing.  No  man  goes  less  into  society  than  I 
do.  Most  people  have  given  up  inviting  me." 

"Forgive  me,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont  again. 


14  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"I  had  imagined  I  should  be  asking  a  thing  the 
most  simple." 

"So  you  are,"  Tranter  assured  him.  "The 
fault  is  with  me.  Where  women  are  con- 
cerned I  am  utterly  hopeless.  I  fly  from  a 
pretty  woman  as  you  might  fly  from  a  croco- 
dile." 

"An  ugly  woman,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont, 
"is  the  real  friend  of  man — if  he  would  but 
know  it." 

"The  dull  family  dinners  of  dull  family  peo- 
ple are  the  only  'functions'  I  ever  attend. 
However,  let  me  see  what  can  be  done  for  you." 
Tranter  rose,  and  with  an  amused  expression 
began  to  sort  out  a  small  pile  of  cards  on  the 
mantel-piece. 

Monsieur  Dupont  smiled  on.  He  emptied 
his  glass,  and  inhaled  the  smoke  of  his  excel- 
lent cigar  with  all  the  enjoyment  of  a  satisfied 
connoisseur.  His  glance  played  from  one 
article  of  furniture  to  another,  from  the  floor 
to  the  ceiling,  from  bookcase  to  bookcase,  from 
picture  to  picture.  The  very  plainness  of  the 
room  seemed  to  fascinate  him.  His  gaze 
sought  out  the  ugliest  picture,  and  became  fixed 


A  STRANGE  RIDDLE  15 

on  it.  Tranter  turned  over  all  the  cards,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders  helplessly. 

"In  a  couple  of  days  I  shall  be  able  to  fix 
you  up  a  dozen  times  over/'  he  said.  "But 
I  am  afraid  I  have  scarcely  anything  to  offer 
you  for  to-morrow  night.  Why  didn't  you 
drop  me  a  line  in  advance  ?" 

"Let  us  dispense  with  to-morrow  night, 
then,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont. 

Tranter  ran  through  the  cards  again. 

"There  is  a  dinner  at  Lord  Crumbleton's — 
which  I  have  too  much  regard  for  you  to  sug- 
gest. The  Countess  is  a  most  estimable  lady, 
who  has  spent  the  last  fifteen  years  in  vain  at- 
tempts to  become  unfaithful  to  her  husband, 
and  now  reads  the  Apocrypha  all  day  for  stimu- 
lation. You  could  dine  with  a  high-church 
clergyman  who  absolves  sins,  or  an  actor- 
manager  who  commits  them.  But  stay " 

he  paused  quickly.  "I  forgot.  There  is 
something  else."  He  sorted  out  a  card. 
"Here  is  a  possibility  of  amusement  that  had 
escaped  me." 

"Ah!"  said  Monsieur  Dupont. 

"George  Copplestone  has  favored  me  with 


16  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

an  invitation  to  a  select  gathering  at  his  house 
at  Richmond,  which  would  be  very  much  more 
likely  to  provide  answers  to  riddles.  I  never 
accept  Copplestone's  invitations  on  principle — 
although  he  goes  on  sending  them.  But,  if 
you  like,  I  will  break  my  rule,  and  take  you. 
It  is  sure  to  be  entertaining,  if  nothing  more." 

Monsieur  Dupont  bowed  his  gratitude. 
Tranter  replaced  the  cards,  and  returned  to  his 
seat. 

"Copplestone  is  a  remarkable  individual, 
who  has  learnt  what  a  multitude  of  sins  even  a 
slight  financial  connection  with  the  Theater 
will  cover.  He  puts  various  sums  of  money 
into  the  front  of  the  house  to  gain  unques- 
tioned admission  to  the  back.  He  has  an 
extraordinary  taste  for  fantasy,  and  is  always 
startling  his  friends  with  some  new  eccen- 
tricity. He  is  not  generally  considered  to  be  a 
desirable  acquaintance — and  certainly  no  man 
in  London  has  less  regard  for  the  conven- 
tions." 

"To  confine  myself  to  desirable  acquaint- 
ances," said  Monsieur  Dupont,  "would  be  my 
last  wish." 


A  STRANGE  RIDDLE  17 

"Then  we  will  go  to  Richmond  to-morrow 
night.  He  lives  in  a  very  strange  house,  in  a 
stranger  garden — the  sort  of  place  that  no 
ordinary  normal  person  could  possibly  live  in. 
And  I  warn  you  that  you  will  find  nothing 
ordinary  or  normal  in  it.  If  you  are  interested 
in  some  of  the  unaccountable  vagaries  of  hu- 
man nature;  you  will  enjoy  yourself." 

"The  unaccountable  vagaries  of  human  na- 
ture," said  Monsieur  Dupont,  "are  the  founda- 
tion of  my  riddle." 

"Then,"  Tranter  returned,  "I  could  give 
you  no  better  chance  to  solve  it.  In  addition, 
you  will  probably  make  the  acquaintance  of  a 
certain  pretty  society  widow,  who  wants  to 
marry  him  because  of  his  vices,  and  one  or  two 
other  well-known  people  who  owe  him  money 
and  can't  afford  to  refuse  to  dine  with  him. 
Also,  as  the  invitation  is  an  unusually  press- 
ing one,  we  can  rely  on  the  introduction  of 
some  unexpected  freaks  for  our  entertain- 
ment." 

"It  is  arranged,"  Monsieur  Dupont  declared, 
"I  go  with  you  to  Richmond." 

"Very   well,"   Tranter   agreed.     "Call   for 


18  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

me  here  at  eight  o'clock,  and  we  will  go.     Help 
yourself  to  another  drink." 

Monsieur  Dupont  helped  himself  to-  another 
drink. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

IT  was  no  unusual  thing  for  George  Cop- 
plestone  to  spring  surprises  on  his  guests. 
He  had  a  twisted  sense  of  the  dramatic, 
and  twisted  things  were  expected  from 
him.     On  some  occasions  he  perpetrated  the 
wildest   and  most  extravagant  eccentricities, 
without  the  slightest  regard  for  the  moral  or 
artistic  sensibilities  of  those  on  whom  he  im- 
posed them — on  others  he  contented  himself 
with  less  harrowing  minor  freaks — but  the  ob- 
ject of  thoroughly  upsetting  and  confounding 
the  mental  balances  of  his  victims  was  invari- 
ably achieved.     He  delighted,  and  displayed 
remarkable  ingenuity,  in  providing  orgies  of 
the  abnormal.     He  reveled  in  producing  an 
atmosphere   of   brain-storm,   and   in   dealing 
sledge-hammer  blows  at  the  intellects  of  his 
better  balanced  acquaintances.     Often  he  was 
19 


20  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

in  uncontrollable  spirits — on  fire  with  mental 
and  physical  exuberance — sometimes  he  was 
morose  and  silent,  and  apparently  weak.  Fre- 
quently he  disappeared  for  considerable  pe- 
riods, and  his  house  appeared  to  be  closed. 
But  none  saw  his  coming  or  going. 

Strange  rumors  circulated  about  him  from 
time  to  time.  Certain  social  circles,  to  which 
his  wealth  and  position  entitled  him  to  the 
entree,  were  closed  to  him.  Over  and  above 
his  wild  extravagancies,  he  was  credited  with 
vices  that  remained  unnamed.  It  was  said 
that  things  took  place  in  his  houses  that  sealed 
the  lips  of  men  and  women.  When  his  name 
was  mentioned  in  the  clubs,  some  men 
shrugged  their  shoulders.  When  it  was  spoken 
in  the  drawing-rooms,  some  women  remained 
silent.  There  had  been  an  attempt  to  stab 
him,  and  twice  he  had  been  shot  at.  After 
the  second  attempt,  a  woman  had  been  heard 
to  say  bitterly  that  he  must  bear  a  charmed 
life.  He  continued  to  pursue  his  strange  ways 
with  supreme  indifference  to  the  opinions  of  his 
fellow-creatures. 

The  house  he  lived  in  was  the  only  sort  of 


THE  CROOKED  HOUSE  21 

house  he  could  have  lived  in.  From  the 
foundations  to  the  topmost  brick  it  was  a  mass 
of  bewildering  crookedness.  Nothing  was 
straight.  Not  a  single  passage  led  where  it 
would  have  been  expected  to  lead — not  a 
staircase  fulfilled  normal  anticipations. 
Scarcely  two  windows  in  the  whole  building 
were  the  same  size — scarcely  two  rooms  were 
the  same  shape — and  not  even  two  contortions 
corresponded.  There  must  have  been  a  mile 
of  unnecessary  corridors,  dozens  of  incompre- 
hensible corners  -and  turnings,  and  at  least  a 
score  of  unwanted  entrances  and  exits.  If 
the  aim  and  object  of  the  architect,  whoever 
he  was,  had  been  to  reduce  the  unfortunate 
occupants  of  his  handiwork  to  a  condition  of 
hopeless  mental  entanglement,  he  could  not 
have  created  a  more  effective  instrument  for 
the  purpose.  George  Copplestone  found  it  a 
residence  after  his  own  heart,  and  delighted 
in  the  means  it  provided  for  gratifying  his  fev- 
erish inspirations. 

The  room  into  which  John  Tranter  and 
Monsieur  Victorien  Dupont  were  ushered  at 
eight-thirty  on  the  following  night  presented 


22  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

an  extraordinary  spectacle  of  lavish  and  in- 
discriminate decoration,  arriving  at  a  general 
suggestion  of  something  between  a  Royal  visit 
and  preparations  for  a  wildly  enthusiastic 
Christmas.  Flags  and  festoons,  flowers,  real 
and  imitation,  fairy-candles  and  colored  lamps, 
burning  with  strange  heavy  scents,  quaint  fan- 
tastic shapes  of  paper,  startlingly  illuminated — 
all  massed  into  an  indescribable  disorder  of 
light  and  color.  Five  amazed  people  were 
awaiting  further  developments. 

Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe  was  a  charming  widow  of 
twenty-seven,  who  had  successfully  gambled 
on  her  late  husband's  probable  lease  of  life,  and 
was  now  in  the  throes  of  a  wild  attachment  to 
George  Copplestone,  to  which  he  had  shown 
himself  by  no  means  averse.  She  was  some- 
what languid  from  an  excess  of  luxury,  unable 
to  brook  opposition  even  to  a  whim,  and  as  yet 
undefeated  in  the  attainment  of  her  desires, 
which  were  not,  perhaps,  always  to  the  credit 
of  her  sex.  She  had  an  insufficient  income, 
and  a  weakness  for  inscribing  her  signature  on 
stamped  slips  of  paper,  several  of  which,  it  was 


THE  CROOKED  HOUSE  23 

rumored,  were  in  Copplestone's  possession. 
Her  house  in  Grosvenor  Gardens  was  an  ar- 
tistic paradise,  and  -was  frequently  visited  by 
gentlemen  from  Jermyn  Street,  who  seemed 
fond  of  assuring  themselves  that  its  treasures 
remained  intact. 

A  West-End  clergyman,  of  Evangelical  ap- 
pearance, who  translated  French  farces  under 
a  nom-de-plume,  was  advocating,  in  confidence, 
the  abolition  of  the  Censor  to  a  well-known 
theatrical  manager,  whose  assets  were  all  in 
the  name  of  his  wife.  A  bejeweled  Russian 
danseuse,  who  spoke  broken  English  with  a 
Highland  accent,  extolled  the  attractions  of 
theatrical  investment  to  a  Hebrew  financier, 
who  was  feasting  his  eyes  on  the  curves  of  her 
figure,  and  hoping  that  she  was  sufficiently 
hard-up.  The  entrance  of  Tranter  and  his 
huge  companion  created  general  surprise. 
Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe  held  up  her  hands  prettily. 

"You  ?"  she  exclaimed,  to  Tranter.  "You — 
of  all  people — condescending  to  visit  our  plane  ? 
The  mystery  is  explained  at  once.  The  decor- 
ations are  for  you — the  Pillar  of  the  State !" 


24  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Indeed  they  are  not,"  he  assured  her.  He 
stood  aside.  "Permit  me  to  introduce  my 
friend,  Monsieur  Dupont." 

"This  is  delightful!"  she  smiled. 

Monsieur  Dupont  bent  over  her  hanti. 

"Madame,"  he  declared,  "I  change  com- 
pletely my  opinion  of  London." 

"Where  is  Copplestone  ?"  Tranter  inquired, 
gazing  with  amazement  round  the  festooned 
room. 

A  frown  passed  over  Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe's 
face. 

"He  has  not  yet  appeared.  He  sent  in  a 
message  asking  us  to  wait  for  him  here.  He 
is  up  to  some  freak  obviously." 

"It  is  certainly  a  strange  medley  of  color," 
Tranter  admitted.  "Fortunately,  I  am  not 
particularly  susceptible — but  to  an  artistic 
temperament  I  can  understand  that  the  effect 
would  be  acute.  What  extraordinary  event 
can  such  a  blaze  be  intended  to  celebrate  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  returned,  a  little  shortly. 
"He  has  told  us  nothing." 

Her  eyes  strayed  anxiously  to  the  door. 
The  movements  of  her  hands  were  nervous. 


THE  CROOKED  HOUSE  25 

"I  wish  he  would  come,"  she  muttered — and 
stood  away  from  them. 

Tranter  drew  his  companion  across  the 
room. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  smiling.  "How  do  you 
like  this  somewhat  showy  welcome?" 

"My  friend,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont  slowly 
— "into  what  manner  of  house  have  you 
brought  me?" 

"Oopplestone  is  a  curious  fellow,"  Tranter 
replied.  "I  warned  you  to  be  prepared  for 
something  unusual." 

"It  is  a  crooked  house,"  said  Monsieur  Du- 
pont. "It  stands  on  a  crooked  road,  and  there 
are  crooked  paths  all  round  it.  And  every- 
thing is  crooked  inside  it." 

"These  decorations  are  crooked  enough,  at 
any  rate,"  Tranter  laughed. 

"These  decorations,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont, 
"are  not  only  crooked — they  are  bad.  Very 
bad." 

He  lowered  his  voice.  There  was  a  gleam 
of  excitement  in  his  eyes. 

"Don't  you  see,"  he  whispered,  "that  decora- 
tions can  be  good  or  bad,  just  as  men  and 


26  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

women  can  be  good  or  bad  ?  These  decorations 
are  bad.  They  are  a  mockery  of  all  decora- 
tions— a  travesty  the  most  heartless  of  the  mo- 
tives for  which  good  and  pure  people  decorate. 
There  is  nothing  honest  or  straightforward 
about  them.  They  are  a  mean  confusion  of  all 
the  symbols  of  joy.  They  are  put  up  for  some 
cruel  and  detestable  purpose " 

The  door  flew  open  with  a  snap,  and  a  young 
man  of  dishevelled  appearance  burst  into  the 
room.  His  eyes  were  wild,  and  his  face  was 
working  with  the  intensity  of  his  passion. 

"Christine,"  he  panted.     "Christine.  .  .  ." 

He  stopped,  and  gazed  round  in  a  dazed 
fashion,  clenching  and  unclenching  his  hands. 

Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe  sprang  forward  with  a 
suppressed  cry,  and  confronted  him  tensely. 

"Well?"  she  cried  sharply— "what  about 
Christine?" 

He  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  her.  He  was 
staring  at  the  flags,  the  lights,  the  flowers,  and 
the  colored  paper. 

"It  is  true  then,"  he  muttered.  "These 
things.  .  .  ." 

The  woman  was  as  white  as  death.     Her 


THE  CROOKED  HOUSE  27 

hands    were    locked    together.     She    swayed. 

"What  is  true?"  she  gasped. 

The  young  man  took  no  notice  of  her.  Cop- 
plestone's  elderly  manservant  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  and  approached  him. 

"Mr.  Copplestone  declines  to  see  you,  sir — 
and  requests  that  you  will  leave  his  house.  I 
have  orders,  otherwise,  to  send  for  the  police." 

The  young  man  drew  himself  up.  He  was 
suddenly  quite  composed  and  dignified.  The 
passion  died  out  of  his  face,  leaving  an  expres- 
sion almost  of  contentment  in  its  place. 

"I  wish  it  to  be  understood,"  he  said,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  the  room  generally  with 
perfect  evenness,  "that,  rather  than  allow 
Christine  Manderson  to  become  engaged  to 
George  Copplestone,  I  will  tear  her  to  pieces 
with  my  own  hands,  and  utterly  destroy  her." 
And  he  turned,  and  walked  quietly  out  of  the 
room. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  all  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  white,  rigid  woman.  Her  face 
was  drawn  and  haggard.  She  seemed  to  have 
grown  old  and  weak.  Her  whole  frame  ap- 
peared to  have  shrunk  under  an  overwhelming 


28  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

blow.  For  some  moments  she  stood  motion- 
less. Then,  with  a  supreme  effort  of  self-con- 
trol, she  turned,  and  faced  them  steadily. 

"I  think,"  she  said  calmly,  "that  if  Miss 
Manderson  is  in  the  house  she  should  be 
warned." 

''Fellow  was  mad,"  said  the  theatrical  man- 
ager. 

"Tout-a-fait  daft,"  agreed  the  Russian  dan- 
seuse. 

"It  would  have  been  safer,"  Tranter  re- 
marked, "if  he  had  been  given  in  charge." 

There  was  something  very  like  contempt  in 
Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe's  glance. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  quietly,  "that  that 
young  man  is  a  millionaire  who  lives  on  a 
pound  a  week,  and  spends  the  remaining  nine 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  pounds  a  week  on 
saving  lives  and  souls  in  places  in  London  that 
people  like  us  try  to  avoid  even  hearing  about  ? 
If  it  is  madness  to  devote  your  life  and  money 
to  lifting  some  of  the  world's  shadows — then 
he  is  very  mad." 

"Mosth  creditable,"  said  the  Hebrew  finan- 
cier. 


THE  CROOKED  HOUSE  29 

She  turned  her  back  on  them,  and  stood 
apart. 

Monsieur  Dupont  laid  a  hand  on  Tranter's 
arm. 

"My  friend,"  he  said — and  there  was  the 
faintest  tremor  in  his  voice,  "I  ask  you  again 
— into  what  manner  of  house  have  you  brought 
me  ?" 

"I  am  beginning  to  wish  that  I  had  not 
brought  you,"  Tranter  returned.  "I  don't  like 
the  atmosphere." 

"That,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  drawing 
him  aside,  "is  where  we  differ.  To  me  the  at- 
mosphere is  extremely  interesting.  If  I  were 
a  sportsman,  I  would  make  you  a  bet  that  this 
will  be  an  eventful  evening." 

"I  feel  strongly,"  said  Tranter  seriously, 
"that  we  should  be  wise  to  leave.  We  don't 
want  to  be  mixed  up  in  an  affair  with  a  mad- 
man." 

Monsieur  Dupont  shook  his  head. 

"The  millionaire  was  not  mad,  my  friend. 
He  may  have  been  mad  yesterday.  He  may 
be  mad  to-morrow.  But  he  is  very  sane  to- 
night." 


30  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"I  don't  like  it,"  Tranter  maintained.  "I 
would  much  rather  go.  Events  under  this 
roof  have  a  trick  of  being  a  little  too  dramatic." 

Laughter  from  the  clergyman,  the  financier, 
and  the  danseuse,  greeted  the  conclusion  of  a 
story  with  which  the  theatrical  manager  had 
attempted  to  relieve  the  strain.  Monsieur  Du- 
pont  drew  Tranter  still  further  back. 

"This  Mademoiselle  Manderson — do  you 
know  her?" 

"No,"  Tranter  replied.  "I've  never  heard 
of  her.  I  suppose  she  is  some  new  friend  of 
Copplestone's.  If  she  is  really  engaged  to  him, 
I  don't  think  she  is  altogether  to  be  envied." 

Monsieur  Dupont's  glance  found  Mrs.  Ast- 
ley-Rolfe. 

"No,"  he  remarked  softly — "I  do  not  think 
she  is." 

Two  heavy  curtains  at  the  extreme  end  of 
the  room  were  drawn  apart,  and  the  figure  of 
a  man  appeared  between  them — a  tall,  thick-set 
man,  in  full  evening-dress,  with  a  large  white 
flower  in  his  button-hole.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  still,  looking  intently  down  the  room. 


THE  CROOKED  HOUSE  31 

"Copplestone,"  Tranter  whispered  to  his 
companion. 

"Mon  Dieu"  muttered  Monsieur  Dupont. 

It  was  the  face  of  a  fanatic — wonderful, 
fascinating,  cruel — a  fanatic  who  neither 
feared  God  nor  regarded  man — an  infinite 
egotist.  The  fires  of  a  great  distorted  soul 
smoldered  in  his  eyes.  The  broad,  lofty  fore- 
head proclaimed  a  mind  that  might  have  placed 
him  among  the  rulers  of  men — but  instead  he 
was  little  above  the  level  of  a  clown.  The 
destinies  of  a  nation  might  have  rested  in  the 
hands  that  he  turned  only  to  selfish  fantasy. 
The  whole  appearance  of  him,  arresting  and 
almost  awe-inspiring  as  it  undoubtedly  was, 
had  in  it  the  repulsiveness  of  the  unnatural — 
and,  with  that,  all  the  tragedy  of  pitiful  waste. 

To-night,  he  confronted  his  guests  in  an 
attitude,  and  with  an  air,  of  triumph.  But  as 
Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe  turned  quickly  to  him  with 
something  of  a  challenge  in  her  bearing,  a  faint 
mocking  smile  appeared  and  lingered  for  a 
moment  on  his  face.  Then  he  moved  aside, 
his  hand  on  the  curtains. 


32  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said  deliber- 
ately, "permit  me  to  present  you  to  my  fiancee 
— Miss  Christine  Manderson." 

He  drew  the  curtains  apart. 

"Mon  Dieu"  said  Monsieur  Dupont  again. 

A  half-strangled  sob  came  from  the  lips  of 
Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe.  Tranter  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation. The  danseuse,  the  clergyman,  and 
the  theatrical  manager  burst  into  vigorous  ap- 
plause. 

Framed  in  the  darkness  behind  him  was  the 
white  form  of  a  woman,  of  transcendent  love- 
liness. In  the  soft  light  it  seemed  almost  a 
celestial  figure.  She  smiled  with  entrancing 
sweetness,  and  held  out  her  hands. 

But  as  her  gaze  swept  over  the  occupants  of 
the  room,  the  smile  vanished.  Her  eyes  be- 
came fixed  and  staring;  her  face  set.  She  ut- 
tered a  sharp  cry — and  fell  forward  in  a  dead 
faint. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  ENDLESS  GARDEN 

CONFUSION  followed.     Copplestone 
knelt  beside  her,  calling  her  by  name 
in  a  strange  excess  of  fear.     The 
theatrical  manager  tore  a  flask  from 
his  pocket,  and  administered  its  contents  freely. 
The  spirit  revived  her.     She  opened  her  eyes. 
They  lifted  her  gently,  and  laid  her  on  a  couch. 
"It  was  that  madman  rushing  in  unnerved 
her,"  Copplestone  cried  fiercely.     "Wish  I'd 
called  in  the  police.     Curse  him !" 

Her  hand  closed  on  his.  "No,  no,"  she 
whispered.  "He  must  not  be  touched.  He 
didn't  mean  it." 

"Mean  it  be  damned!"  said  Copplestone 
savagely.  "If  I  see  any  more  of  him,  he'll 
find  himself  in  jail  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to 
say  it." 

The  manager  proffered  further  stimulant. 

33 


34  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

The  color  began  to  return  to  her  face,  but  her 
eyes  were  wide  and  strained.  Copplestone 
watched  her  closely. 

"Look  here,"  said  the  manager,  re-corking 
his  empty  flask,  "she'd  better  rest.  Let's  all 
clear  off,  and  go  on  with  this  another  night." 

"Thertainly,"  agreed  the  financier. 

But  Christine  Manderson  rose,  and  leant  on 
Copplestone's  arm.  Her  self-control  was  ex- 
erted to  the  utmost,  but  she  trembled. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said  softly.  "I  am  all 
right  now.  Please  don't  go." 

"Good!"  Copplestone  exclaimed,  recovering 
his  equanimity.  "It  would  be  a  pity  to  break 
up.  We'll  have  a  jolly  night."  He  laughed 
loudly.  "Tranter,  of  all  people!"  he  cried 

boisterously.     "And "  he  looked  towards 

Monsieur  Dupont. 

"I  was  sure  you  wouldn't  mind  my  bringing 
a  friend  with  me,"  Tranter  said.  "Monsieur 
Dupont  has  just  arrived  from  Paris." 

"Delighted,"  said  Copplestone,  shaking 
hands  with  great  heartiness.  "Forgive  this 
unhappy  beginning.  We'll  make  up  for  it  now. 
Come  along  to  dinner.  It's  all  ready." 


THE  ENDLESS  GARDEN          35 

In  the  dining-room  they  sat  down  to  a  table 
that  glittered  and  gleamed  with  a  hundred 
lights,  concealed  tinder  strands  of  white  crys- 
tallized leaves,  springing  from  a  frosted  tree. 
Such  a  table  might  have  been  set  in  Fairyland, 
for  the  betrothal  feast  of  Oberon. 

"Glad  we  didn't  miss  this,"  said  the  theat- 
rical manager. 

He  regaled  the  company  with  a  selection  of 
his  less  offensive  stories,  and  found  ready  ap- 
plause. The  gayety  was  loud  and  forced. 
Every  one  attempted  to  keep  it  at  fever-heat. 
Jest  followed  jest  with  increasing  rapidity. 
Laughter  rang  out  on  the  smallest  provoca- 
tion. It  was  a  competition  in  hilarity.  And 
the  gayest  of  all  were  Christine  Manderson, 
and  Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe. 

The  night  was  hot  and  sultry.  The  distant 
roll  of  thunder  added  to  the  tenseness  of  the 
atmosphere.  And  hearing  it,  Christine  Man- 
derson shuddered. 

"Storms  are  unlucky  to  me,"  she  said,  listen- 
ing until  the  sullen  roll  died  away.  "Why 
should  we  have  one  to-night — of  all  nights?" 

The  clergyman  adroitly  twisted  the  subject 


36  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

of  lightning  into  a  compliment.  As  the  dinner 
drew  to  a  somewhat  loud  conclusion,  Copple- 
stone's  face  grew  flushed,  and  his  hands  un- 
steady. The  manager's  voice  and  stories 
thickened,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  Russian 
danseuse  became  fixed  on  Aberdeen.  Tranter 
and  Monsieur  Dupont  were  abstemious  guests. 
But  the  Frenchman  seemed  to  be  enjoying  him- 
self immensely. 

They  rose  from  the  fairy  table,  and  strolled 
out  through  the  open  windows  into  the  garden. 
The  air  had  grown  hotter  and  more  oppressive, 
the  thunder  louder.  Frequent  flashes  lit  up 
the  darkness. 

The  glowing  tips  of  cigars  and  cigarettes 
disappeared  in  various  directions  across  the 
lawns. 

Monsieur  Dupont  discovered,  to  his  cost,  the 
truth  of  his  remark  that  the  house  was  sur- 
rounded by  crooked  paths.  The  grounds  were 
a  veritable  maze.  He  had  purposely  slipped 
away  alone,  and  in  five  minutes  was  involved 
in  a  network  of  twisting,  thickly-hedged  paths, 


THE  ENDLESS  GARDEN          37 

all  of  which  seemed  only  to  lead  still  further 
into  the  darkness. 

He  stopped,  and  listened.  He  could  hear 
no  voices.  Not  a  sound,  except  the  gathering 
thunder,  disturbed  the  silence.  He  was  com- 
pletely cut  off.  Even  the  lights  of  the  house 
were  hidden  from  him.  He  had  turned  about 
so  many  times  that  he  did  not  even  know  in 
which  direction  it  lay.  Coupled  with  the  effect 
of  what  had  happened  in  the  house,  the  influ- 
ence of  this  tortuous  garden  was  sinister  and 
unnerving.  In  the  lightning  flashes,  now  more 
vivid  and  frequent,  he  tried  in  vain  to  deter- 
mine his  position.  He  wandered  about,  trying 
path  after  path,  doubling  back  on  his  own 
tracks — only  to  find  himself  more  and  more 
helplessly  lost. 

"Nom  de  Dieu"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  in 
despair. 

He  halted  suddenly,  standing  as  still  as  a 
figure  of  stone.  On  his  right  the  hedge  was 
thick  and  high.  He  could  see  nothing.  But 
the  whisper  of  a  voice  had  reached  him. 

The  path  took  a  sharp  turn.     He  stepped 


38  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

noiselessly  on  to  the  grass  border,  and  crept 
round,  with  wonderful  agility  for  a  man  of  his 
size.  The  foliage  gradually  thinned,  and 
kneeling  down  he  was  able  to  listen  and  peer 
through  until  the  next  flash  should  reveal  what 
lay  beyond. 

The  whisper  thrilled  with  indescribable  pas- 
sion. 

"I  love  you.  You  are  my  body,  my  soul, 
my  god,  my  all.  I  love  you — I  love  you — I 
love  you." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Christine  Manderson. 

Not  a  tremor  escaped  the  listener.  Parting 
the  leaves  with  a  hand  as  steady  as  the  ground 
itself,  he  waited  for  the  light. 

"I  have  no  world  but  you — no  thought  but 
you.  I  want  nothing  but  you  .  .  .  you  .  .  . 
you."  A  sob  broke  her  voice. 

"Go,"  the  answer  was  almost  inaudible  in 
its  tenseness.  "Go — and  forget.  I  have  noth- 
ing for  you." 

The  lightning  came.  In  a  small  open  space 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge  it  illuminated 
the  wild  tortured  face  of  Christine  Manderson. 
And  standing  before  her,  gripping  both  her 


THE  ENDLESS  GARDEN          39 

hands  and  holding  her  away  from  him — John 
Tranter. 

She  struggled  to  bring  herself  closer  to  him. 

"I  thought  you  were  dead,"  she  gasped. 

"I  am  dead,"  he  answered.  "I  am  dead  to 
you.  Let  me  go." 

The  listener  could  almost  hear  the  effort  of 
her  breathing. 

"I  waited  for  you,"  she  panted.  "I  was 
broken.  I  had  to  seem  happy — but  my  heart 
was  a  tomb.  You  were  all  my  life — all  my 
hope.  I  know  I  wasn't  what  I  might  have 
been.  I  was  what  people  call  an  adventuress. 
But  my  love  for  you  was  the  one  great,  true 
thing  of  my  life.  Oh,  why  did  you  leave 
me?" 

"For  your  own  sake,"  he  said  slowly.  "I 
am  no  mate  for  such  a  woman  as  you." 

"My  own  sake?"  she  repeated.  "My  own 
sake — to  take  from  me  the  only  thing  I  had — 
my  only  chance? — to  throw  my  life  into  the 
shadows?  My  own  sake  ...  to  have  made 
me  what  I  am?" 

"I  would  have  spared  you  this  meeting,"  he 
returned,  "if  I  had  known.  But  the  name 


40  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

Christine  Manderson  was  strange  to  me.  I 
had  never  heard  it  before." 

"I  changed  my  name,"  she  said  sadly.  "I 
couldn't  bear  that  any  one  should  use  the  name 
that  you  had  used.  I  called  myself  Christine 
Manderson,  and  went  on  the  stage  in  New 
York.  Oh,  it  was  dreadful.  All  those  long 
years  since  you  left  me  I  have  lived  under  a 
mask — as  you  have  seen  me  to-night.  You 
thought  I  was  smiling — but  I  didn't  smile. 
You  thought  I  was  laughing — but  I  didn't 
laugh.  It  was  all  ...  only  disguised  tears 
...  to  hide  myself." 

"Go,"  his  voice  was  torn.  "For  God's  sake 
go  ...  Thea." 

A  second  flash  showed  them  again  to  the 
listener.  Tranter  was  still  holding  her  away 
from  him.  In  that  vivid  fraction  of  a  second 
the  agony  of  her  face  was  terrible. 

"Thea!"  she  echoed  pitifully.  "Ah,  yes 
— call  me  Thea!  Poor  Thea!  Oh,  doesn't 
that  name  awaken  .  .  .  something?  Hasn't 
it  still  some  charm  ?  Once  you  said  it  was  the 
only  name  in  all  the  world.  Is  it  nothing  to 
you  now?" 


THE  ENDLESS  GARDEN          41 

"Nothing,"  he  answered. 

In  spite  of  his  resistance  she  was  forcing 
herself  nearer  to  him.  The  magic  of  her  pres- 
ence was  binding  him. 

"Am  I  less  beautiful?"  she  whispered. 
"Have  I  lost  anything  that  used  to  draw  you? 
Is  not  my  hair  as  golden?  Are  not  my  eyes 
as  bright — my  lips  as  red?  Am  I  not  as  soft 
to  touch  ?  Where  could  you  find  anything  bet- 
ter than  me?" 

"Keep  back !"  he  muttered. 

Her  hands  were  about  him.  In  the  darkness 
he  could  feel  the  deadly  loveliness  of  her  face 
almost  touching  his  own.  He  was  yielding, 
inch  by  inch.  The  warmth  of  her  breath  .  .  . 
the  perfume  of  her  body.  .  .  .  Her  closeness 
was  intoxicating — maddening. 

"Oh,  let  me  come  to  you,"  she  prayed.  "I 
will  follow  you  barefooted  to  the  end  of  the 
world.  I  will  live  for  you — slave  for  you — 
die  for  you.  Only  let  me  come.  Let  me  leave 
all  this — and  come  to  you  .  .  .  to-morrow. 

A  groan  was  wrung  from  him.  He  crushed 
her  to  him. 


42  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Come  then !"  he  cried  desperately.  "Come, 
if  you  will !  .  .  ." 

A  vivid  flash,  which  seemed  to  burst  almost 
over  their  heads,  showed  them  locked  in  each 
other's  arms,  their  lips  pressed  together. 

Monsieur  Dupont  raised  himself  quickly. 
There  was  the  sound  of  running  footsteps  on 
the  path  behind  him.  Monsieur  Dupont  had 
just  time  to  turn  the  corner  before  the  dis- 
ordered figure  of  the  theatrical  manager  loomed 
up  before  him. 

"The  madman  is  in  the  garden!  He  ran 
this  way." 

"Diable!"  said  Monsieur  Dupont. 

"I  found  him  sneaking  towards  the  house. 
He  bolted  out  here." 

Unaccustomed  to  physical  exertion,  the 
manager  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  Monsieur  Du- 
pont's  shoulder,  and  mopped  his  forehead 
breathlessly. 

"The  scoundrel  means  mischief,"  he  de- 
clared. "He  must  be  found." 

"Where  is  Mr.  Copplestone  ?" 

"I  called  him,  but  couldn't  get  an  answer. 


THE  ENDLESS  GARDEN          43 

He  must  be  away  at  the  other  end  of  the  gar- 
den." 

"No  one  has  passed  this  way,"  Monsieur 
Dupont  assured  him.  "For  a  half -hour  I  have 
been  wandering  about  these  horrible  paths." 

"It's  a  devil  of  a  garden,"  the  manager  ad- 
mitted. "The  fellow  won't  get  very  far. 
Let's  look  about  here." 

Fortified  with  a  fresh  supply  of  breath,  he 
released  Monsieur  Dupont's  shoulder,  and 
made  a  brisk  movement  towards  the  direction 
from  which  the  Frenchman  had  come. 

Monsieur  Dupont  blocked  the  way. 

"No,  no — it  would  be  a  waste  of  time.  I 
have  come  from  there." 

"To  the  river,  then,"  the  manager  cried, 
bearing  him  round.  "He  may  be  trying  to  get 
across." 

He  was  evidently  familiar  with  the  intrica- 
cies of  the  garden.  In  a  few  minutes,  after  a 
dozen  turnings,  they  reached  the  gleam  of 
water. 

"Keep  your  eyes  open  for  the  next  flash," 
the  manager  directed. 


44  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

He  peered  about.  A  moment  later  the 
lightning  lit  up  the  calm  stretch  of  the  river 
and  the  broad  lawns  sloping  down  to  it.  Mon- 
sieur Dupont  detected  no  form  or  movement 
— but  with  a  startling  shout,  the  manager 
bounded  away  from  him  across  the  lawns. 

Monsieur  Dupont  blinked  after  him  in  aston- 
ishment. 

He  was  alone  again — in  a  new  and  even 
darker  part  of  the  endless  garden. 


CHAPTER  IV 
DESTRUCTION 

A  DEEP-TONED  clock  in  the  house 
struck  twelve. 
Rain  began  to  fall.     A  few  mo- 
ments  later  the   financier   hurried 
across  the  lawns  with  his  collar  turned  up. 
The  danseuse  followed  him.     She  seemed  a 
disappointed  and  indignant  woman. 

"It's  almost  an  insult,"  she  complained  over- 
taking him. 

"Noth  a  penny  more,"  said  the  financier 
firmly. 

They  both  turned  quickly.  Her  hand 
gripped  his  arm  convulsively.  Wild  shouting 
arose  in  the  darkness,  and  the  sound  of  some- 
one forcing  a  headlong  way  through  hedge  and 
bush. 

The  Reverend  Percival  Delamere  was  rush- 
ing towards  the  house  as  if  the  entire  penalties 
of  sin  were  at  his  heels. 

45 


46  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"A  corpse!  A  corpse  by  the  river!  Miss 
Manderson  has  been  murdered !" 

The  danseuse  uttered  a  terrified  cry.  The 
financier  shook. 

"Murderedth?"  he  gasped,  shrinking  back. 

The  clergyman  was  shattered  by  horror. 

"By  the  river  .  .  .  almost  torn  to  pieces 
» 

The  danseuse  screamed  loudly.  A  figure 
bounded  up  behind  them,  and  a  hand  seized 
the  clergyman's  throat  in  a  savage  grip.  The 
furious,  distorted  face  of  George  Copplestone 
glared  down  at  him.  He  struggled,  freeing 
himself  with  all  his  strength. 

"Copplestone,"  he  choked,  "something  dread- 
ful has  happened  to  Miss  Manderson.  I  found 
her  by  the  river  .  .  .  horribly  torn.  .  .  ." 

From  another  direction,  Tranter  reached 
them,  breathless. 

"What  is  the  matter?  What  has  hap- 
pened?" 

The  financier  clung  to  him. 

"Mith  Manderthon  .  .  .  murderedth." 

Tranter  shook  him  off,  and  stood  very  still. 
The  agony  on  his  face  passed  unnoticed.  As 


DESTRUCTION  47 

the  theatrical  manager  and  Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe 
arrived  at  a  run,  Copplestone,  with  a  sound  like 
the  cry  of  a  raging  animal,  grasped  the  un- 
happy clergyman  by  the  arm,  and  dashed  off 
towards  the  river. 

The  others  followed.  They  found  her  lying 
a  few  yards  from  the  water's  edge.  The 
manager  struck  a  match,  and  they  looked 
down. 

The  danseuse  shrieked,  and  fainted.  Mrs. 
Astley-Rolfe  sank  on  her  knees,  sobbing,  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  The  finan- 
cier sickened,  and  turned  away,  trembling 
violently. 

"God !"  Tranter  cried — "some  one  must  have 
stamped  on  her !" 

He  bent  down.     "Thea  .  .  ."  he  whispered. 

Something  like  a  sob  shook  him.  But  the 
others  did  not  see. 

"It  must  have  been  a  wild  beast,"  shud- 
dered the  clergyman. 

"It  is  the  work  of  a  madman,"  said  the  man- 
ager hoarsely.  "He  has  utterly  destroyed  her 
— as  he  threatened." 

George  Copplestone  stood  without  a  tremor. 


48  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

As  he  looked  down  at  the  broken  form  all  his 
frenzy  disappeared.  The  distortion  of  his  first 
fury  faded  from  his  face,  leaving  it  set  in  a 
pallid,  lifeless  mask.  He  contemplated  the 
dreadful  destruction  at  his  feet  without  a  sign 
of  horror,  or  even  of  pity.  He  was  perfectly 
steady.  Not  a  quiver  escaped  him.  Stooping 
down,  he  asked  quietly  for  assistance  to  carry 
the  body  to  the  house. 

"Wait  a  bit,"  said  the  manager,  looking  at 
him  curiously.  "She  ought  not  to  be  moved 
before  the  police  come." 

Copplestone  straightened  himself,  and  re- 
mained silent. 

"Let  Gluckstein  take  the  women  in,  and  tele- 
phone to  the  Police  Station,"  the  manager  sug- 
gested. 

Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe  raised  her  bloodless  face. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  sobbed.  "Let  me  go.  It's 
too  horrible.  I  can't  bear  it." 

Tranter  raised  her  up.  The  danseuse  had 
recovered  consciousness,  and  was  crying  hys- 
terically. Suddenly  the  financier  startled 
them  in  a  thin  high  voice,  pointing  a  shaking 
finger  into  the  darkness. 


DESTRUCTION  49 

"Someone  ith  moving!  Out  there  behind 
uth !  Whoth  there  ?  Whoth  there  ?" 

They  swung  round,  straining  their  eyes  into 
the  blackness. 

"Who's  there?"  the  manager  called. 

An  answering  voice  reached  them.  The 
manager  struck  another  match.  On  the  edge 
of  the  darkness  they  saw  an  enormous  figure. 

"It's  Monsieur  Dupont !"  Tranter  cried. 

"My  friends,"  exclaimed  Monsieur  Dupont, 
"at  last  I  find  you !  What  is  the  matter  ?" 

Copplestone  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"The  matter,"  he  said  evenly,  "is  that  Miss 
Manderson  has  been  murdered." 

Monsieur  Dupont  uttered  an  extraordinary 
exclamation.  He  was  instantly  galvanized 
into  a  condition  of  seething  energy.  With 
what  was  almost  a  snarl,  he  brushed  the 
financier  aside,  and  reached  the  white  mangled 
form  on  the  ground. 

For  a  tense  minute  he  knelt  beside  it.  The 
others  waited. 

"Destroyed,"  they  heard  him  mutter — 
"utterly  destroyed.  .  .  ." 

When  he  rose,  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 


50  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"It  is  terrible.     Who  was  with  her  last?" 

"I  was  with  her  less  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  ago,"  Tranter  replied.  "She  said  she 
was  going  back  to  the  house,  and  asked  me  to 
find  Mr.  Copplestone,  and  tell  him  that  she  was 
not  feeling  well." 

"Where  are  your  police?"  asked  Monsieur 
Dupont. 

"Gluckstein  is  going  to  take  the  ladies  back 
to  the  house,  and  telephone  for  them,"  the  man- 
ager returned. 

The  financier  departed  with  his  charges. 
The  four  men  remained,  facing  each  other  over 
the  dead  body.  Rain  was  falling  heavily. 

"Poor  girl,"  said  the  clergyman  huskily. 

"That  such  a  brute  should  be  at  large,"  the 
manager  added. 

Copplestone's  gaze  again  became  rivetted  to 
the  ground.  He  seemed  unconscious  of  their 
presence.  He  was  like  a  man  alone  and  dazed 
in  a  strange  world. 

Then  the  storm  burst  over  them  with  all  its 
fury.  The  rain  poured  down  in  torrents,  the 
lightning  was  incessant.  It  was  as  if  the 
elements  themselves,  in  their  rage,  were  seek- 


DESTRUCTION  51 

ing   to    complete   the    work    of    destruction. 

"We  can't  leave  her  out  in  this — police  or 
no  police,"  the  clergyman  shivered. 

Copplestone  bent  down  again.  The  man- 
ager moved  to  assist,  but  Tranter  put  him  aside, 
and  assisted  Copplestone  to  lift  the  ghastly 
burden  in  his  arms.  Then  they  picked  their 
way  slowly  along  the  winding  paths  to  the 
house. 

When  they  entered  the  decorated  room, 
Copplestone's  strange  immobility  flashed  upon 
him  with  startling  suddenness.  Uttering  a 
oath,  he  placed  what  he  had  previously 
been  carrying  with  dull  indifference  roughly 
on  a  couch,  and  hurled  himself  furiously 
upon  the  confusion  of  decorations,  tear- 
ing and  crushing  everything  into  a  smashed 
heap  on  the  floor.  So  overwhelming  was  his 
violence  that  no  one  dared  attempt  to  stop 
him.  He  dashed  the  lights  to  the  ground,  and 
rent  the  flags  with  appalling  ferocity.  In  a 
few  moments  a  shattered  pile  was  all  that  re- 
mained of  the  medley  of  illumination.  He 
stood  on  the  pile  and  ground  his  heels  into  it. 

Then  all  the  energy  was  snuffed  out  of  him 


52  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

like  the  switching  off  of  an  electric  current. 
The  dull  heavy  cloud  descended  on  him  again. 
He  stared  vacantly  at  the  others,  shrugged  his 
shoulders  slightly,  and  turned  his  back  on 
them. 

The  silence  remained  unbroken  until  a  loud 
ringing  at  the  front  door  bell  announced  the 
arrival  of  the  police. 


CHAPTER  V 

COPPLESTONE 

DETECTIVE  -  INSPECTOR    FAY 
was  an  able  and  successful  officer, 
of  international  reputation,  whose 
achievements  had  placed  a  substan- 
tial price  on  his  head  in  most  countries  suffi- 
ciently civilized  to  possess  their  criminal  organ- 
izations.    His  bag  had  included  many  famous 
law-breakers,   and,  though  now  employed  in 
less  strenuous  directions,  he  was  admitted  to  be 
one  of  the  most  skilful  and  reliable  of  Scotland 
Yard's  unravelers  of  mystery.     But,  experi- 
enced as  he  was,  the  inspector  could  not  sup- 
press his  horror   and  indignation  when  the 
mutilated  body  of  Christine  Manderson  was 
uncovered  to  him. 

"What,  in  God's  name,  was  there  in  this 
garden  to-night?"  he  demanded,  shuddering. 

"A  madman,"  the  theatrical  manager  mut- 
tered. 

53 


54  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

The  inspector's  glance  rested  on  him  for 
an  instant,  but  passed  on.  He  made  no  further 
remarks  during  his  examination — but  when, 
concluding  it,  he  carefully  replaced  the  cover- 
ing and  turned  again  to  the  others,  there  was 
a  concentrated  gleam  in  his  eyes  and  a  certain 
set  to  his  face  that  were  known  to  bode  ill 
to  the  perpetrators  of  the  deeds  that  inspired 
them. 

"There  can  scarcely  be  a  whole  bone  in  her 
body/'  he  declared,  regarding  them  all  intently. 
"Her  face  is  smashed  to  pulp;  some  of  the 
hair  has  been  wrenched  from  her  head;  and 
even  the  bones  of  her  fingers  are  broken.  It  is 
the  most  brutal  and  disgusting  crime  I  have 
had  the  misfortune  to  meet  with  in  the  whole 
of  my  thirty  years  experience." 

He  gave  a  brief  order  to  an  attendant  con- 
stable, who  moved  to  the  door. 

"If  you  will  kindly  retire  with  the  constable 
to  the  next  room,"  he  requested,  "I  will  take 
a  separate  account  from  every  one.  Perhaps 
Mr.  Copplestone  will  give  me  his  information 
first." 

The  constable  marshalled  them  into  an  ad- 


COPPLESTONE  55 

joining  room,  which  the  danseuse  filled  with 
complaints  at  this  prolonged  detention.  Cop- 
plestone  remained  behind.  His  dullness  and 
immobility  had  increased  almost  to  a  stupor. 

"She  was  engaged  to  marry  %ie,"  he  said, 
in  a  slow  lifeless  tone,  "since  yesterday." 

Inspector  Fay  seated  himself  at  a  table,  and 
opened  his  note-book. 

"We  fully  sympathize  with  you,  Mr.  Cop- 
plestone," he  said  quietly,  "and  I  am  afraid 
it  is  poor  consolation  to  promise  you  that 
justice  shall  be  done  on  the  inhuman  criminal, 
whoever  it  may  be." 

"Justice?"  Copplestone  returned,  in  the  same 
weary,  monotonous  voice.  "Of  what  use  is 
Justice?  Can  it  call  her  back — or  mend  her 
broken  body?" 

"Unfortunately,  it  cannot,"  the  inspector 
admitted.  "But  it  is  all  humanity  can  do. 
Will  you  answer  a  few  questions,  as  clearly 
and  briefly  as  possible?  The  great  thing  in  a 
case  like  this  is  to  lose  no  time  at  the  begin- 
ning." 

Copplestone  sat  down,  and  passed  an  un- 
steady hand  across  his  forehead. 


56  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Go  on,"  he  said  dully. 

"Where  and  when  did  you  first  meet  Miss 
Manderson?" 

"She  came  over  from  New  York  two  months 
ago,  to  play  in  a  new  piece  at  the  Imperial. 
I  have  an  interest  in  the  theater,  and  saw  her 
there  for  the  first  time  about  a  week  after  her 
arrival." 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  her  life  and  asso- 
ciations in  America  ?" 

"Very  little.  She  was  not  communicative. 
She  only  told  me  a  few  of  her  theatrical  ex- 
periences." 

"So  far  as  you  know,"  the  inspector  pro- 
ceeded, "had  she  an  enemy  in  this  country — 
or  was  there  any  one  who  could  have  wished 
to  harm  her  ?" 

"Apparently  there  was,"  Copplestone  re- 
turned. "I  did  not  know  it  until  to-night." 

Mechanically,  in  the  manner  of  one  repeating 
a  lesson,  he  described  the  visit  of  the  young 
millionaire,  and  his  threat  against  Christine 
Manderson. 

"And  the  name  of  this  young  man?"  the 
inspector  asked,  bending  over  his  note-book. 


COPPLESTONE  57 

"James  Layton." 

Inspector  Fay  looked  up  sharply. 

"Layton?  The  man  they  call  the  Mad 
Philanthropist?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Copplestone  replied  wearily. 
"He  may  be." 

"James  Layton  is  very  well  known  to  us," 
the  inspector  said  slowly.  "He  is  a  charitable 
fanatic,  who  does  more  good  in  the  East  End 
than  all  the  Royally  Patronized  Associations 
put  together.  But  how  in  the  world  did  he 
come  to  know  Miss  Manderson  ?" 

"She  never  mentioned  him  to  me,"  Copple- 
stone stated.  "I  had  not  heard  of  him  until 
he  burst  into  this  house  to-night." 

The  inspector  made  several  notes. 

"He  has  educated  and  trained  as  his  assis- 
tant a  particularly  wild  specimen  of  a  coster 
girl,  who  is  madly  in  love  with  him.  ..." 
He  closed  his  note-book  with  a  snap.  "You 
say  the  words  he  used  were  that  rather 
than  allow  Miss  Manderson  to  become  engaged 
to  you,  he  would  tear  her  to  pieces  with  his 
own  hands,  and  utterly  destroy  her?" 

"So  they  told  me,"  Copplestone  answered 


58  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

heavily.  "I  was  not  in  the  room.  I  refused 
to  see  him." 

"And  he  left  quite  quietly?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  Miss  Manderson  show  any  particular 
fear  of  the  threat?" 

"She  was  very  much  upset,  and  fainted  when 
she  came  into  the  room.  I  should  have  sent 
for  the  police  at  once,  but  she  begged  me  not  to, 
and  insisted  that  he  didn't  mean  what  he  said. 
I  wish  to  God  I  hadn't  listened." 

"So  there  was  no  doubt  that  she  knew 
him?" 

"No.     She  certainly  knew  him." 

"Afterwards,  you  say,  he  was  seen  in  the 
garden  when  you  were  all  out  after  dinner?" 
the  inspector  continued. 

"Yes." 

"Who  saw  him?" 

"Mr.  Bolsover,  the  theatrical  manager, 
found  him  sneaking  about  the  house,  and 
chased  him  out  in  the  direction  of  the  crime." 

"Did  any  one  see  him,  besides  Mr.  Bol- 
sover?" 

"Apparently  not.     He  says  he  called  to  me 


COPPLESTONE  59 

— but  I  had  gone  into  the  house  to  fill  my  cigar- 
ette-case, and  did  not  hear  him/' 

"He  escaped  from  Mr.  Bolsover,  and  was  not 
seen  again?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  there  any  one  else,"  the  inspector  asked 
slowly,  "who  might,  for  any  reason,  have  en- 
tertained unfriendly  feelings  towards  Miss 
Manderson?" 

Copplestone's  glance  sharpened  a  little  under 
the  question. 

"I  suppose  there  was,"  he  admitted,  with 
some  reluctance. 

"Who  was  it?" 

Copplestone  paused,  frowning. 

"Please  do  not  hesitate,"  the  inspector 
pressed  firmly.  "We  must  know  everything." 

"Perhaps,"  the  tired  voice  confessed,  "it 
wasn't  altogether  playing  the  game  to  announce 
my  engagement  so  unexpectedly  to — to " 

"Well?"  the  inspector  insisted — "to  whom?" 

"To  Phyllis  Astley-Rolfe." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  The 
inspector  waited  quietly.  With  an  effort, 
Copplestone  continued. 


60  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"I  am  afraid  it  was  rather  cruel.  She'd 
annoyed  me  lately,  and  I  put  up  some  decora- 
tions, and  announced  the  news  in  a  dramatic 
way  ...  to  mock  her."  He  broke  off,  star- 
ing at  the  remains  of  the  decorations  on  the 
floor.  "But  I  tore  them  down.  I  shall  never 
decorate  again.  ..." 

The  inspector  watched  him  closely.  He 
seemed  to  be  on  the  verge  of  sleep. 

"Then  Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe  had  reason  to  be 
jealous  of  Miss  Manderson?"  the  inspector 
demanded  briskly. 

"I  suppose  .  .  .  she  had." 

"Good  reason?" 

"Possibly." 

"Had  you  given  her  definite  cause  to  believe 
that  you  intended  to  ask  her  to  marry  you?" 

"Perhaps  so.  At  any  rate  ...  I  had  not 
given  her  definite  cause  to  believe  that  I  didn't." 

His  voice  sank  to  a  whisper.  He  leant  back 
limply  in  his  chair. 

"There  is  only  one  more  question  I  need 
trouble  you  with  at  present,"  the  inspector  said. 
"Who  was  the  last  person  to  be  with  Miss  Man- 
derson before  the  crime  was  discovered?" 


COPPLESTONE  61 

Copplestone  scarcely  opened  his  eyes. 

"Mr.  Tranter  was  with  her  near  the  river. 
She  left  him  to  go  back  to  the  house,  and  asked 
him  to  find  me,  and  tell  me  she  was  not 
well." 

"Did  he  find  you?" 

"Yes.     And -I  at  once  went  into  the  house." 

"Where  were  you  when  Mr.  Tranter  found 
you  ?" 

"I  was  crossing  the  second  lawn — towards 
the  tennis  courts." 

The  inspector  was  busy  with  his  note-book. 

"Were  you  alone?" 

"Yes.  I  had  just  come  out  of  the  house 
after  filling  my  cigarette-case,  as  I  told  you. 
I  was  looking  for  Miss  Manderson,  and  won- 
dering where  she  had  got  to.  If  only  I  had 
gone  in  the  right  direction  ...  I  might  have 
been  in  time.  .  .  ." 

"After  Mr.  Tranter  had  spoken  to  you,  you 
say  you  went  into  the  house  at  once?" 

"At  once.  I  waited  nearly  ten  minutes  for 
her,  and  came  out  again  just  as  Mr.  Delamere 
gave  the  alarm.  I'm  afraid  I  handled  him 
roughly.  .  .  ." 


62  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

The  words  trailed  off  into  silence.  A  con- 
vulsive shudder  passed  through  him. 

"Then  we  all  ran  off  ...  to  where  she 
lay,"  his  voice  shook.  "Something  seemed  to 
give  way  .  .  .  here  ..."  he  pressed  his 
hands  to  his  head.  "Is  there  .  .  .  anything 
more  .  .  .  you  want  to  know?" 

The  inspector  rose. 

"Only  one  thing.  Will  you  kindly  give  me 
the  names  of  your  guests  in  the  other  room  ?" 

Copplestone  complied  slowly.  Inspector  Fay 
wrote  the  names  down. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  laying  down  his  book. 
"I  am  sorry  to  have  had  to  give  you  the  pain 
of  answering  so  many  questions.  I  am  afraid 
you  are  quite  overwrought.  I  should  advise 
you  to  try  to  get  some  sleep." 

"Sleep,"  Copplestone  murmured,  rising 
weakly  from  his  chair.  "Sleep.  .  .  .  Good 
God." 

The  inspector  himself  made  a  gesture  of 
fatigue. 

"I  only  got  back  from  another  heavy  case 
as  your  message  came  in,"  he  apologized, 
stifling  a  yawn.  "Tobacco  is  the  only  thing 


COPPLESTONE  63 

that  keeps  me  going.  Could  you  give  me  a 
cigarette?" 

Without  answering,  Copplestone  languidly 
produced  an  elaborately  jeweled  gold  cigar- 
ette-case, and  handed  it  to  the  inspector. 

There  were  two  cigarettes  in  it. 

Inspector  Fay  took  one,  with  a  perfectly  im- 
passive countenance,  and  returned  the  case. 
Copplestone  replaced  it  in  his  pocket. 

"Please  give  whatever  instructions  you  like 
to  my  man,"  he  said  dully — "and  let  me  know 
if  you  want  me.  I  shall  be  in  my  room." 

He  turned,  and  moved  away  with  slow  heavy 
steps,  disappearing  between  the  same  curtains 
through  which,  a  few  hours  before,  he  had 
presented  Christine  Manderson  to  his  guests. 

The  inspector  stood  looking  after  him,  finger- 
ing the  cigarette  thoughtfully,  a  very  curious 
expression  on  his  face.  He  showed  no  further 
signs  of  fatigue. 

"I  wonder  why  you  lied  to  me,"  he  muttered 
— and  laid  the  cigarette  on  the  table. 

He  glanced  down  the  list  of  names,  and  went 
to  the  door.  The  constable  had  mounted  guard 
over  his  prisoners  with  extraordinary  dignity. 


64  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

The  voice  of  the  danseuse  was  still  raised  in 
lamentation. 

"Monsieur  Dupont,"  the  inspector  called. 

The  constable  passed  on  the  summons — and 
Monsieur  Dupont  instantly  obeyed  it. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  TRAIL  OF  CORPSES 

THE  inspector  closed  the  door  behind 
him.  "What  has  brought  you  back 
into  the  arena  ?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"A  riddle,"  the  Frenchman  an- 
swered, in  an  equally  low  tone. 

"It  must  have  been  something  pretty  big  to 
have  tempted  you"  the  inspector  remarked, 
coming  closer  to  him. 

"It  was,"  Monsieur  Dupont  admitted. 
The  other  glanced  cautiously  towards  the 
curtains  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 

"Why  are  you  here — in  this  house?"  he  de- 
manded softly. 

"By  chance,"  Monsieur  Dupont  replied. 
"Did  you  know  Copplestone  before?" 
"I  did  not.     I  had  never  seen  him.     I  came 
with  my  friend,  Tranter." 

"You  were  here  all  the  evening?" 
"Yes." 

65 


66  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Anything  to  tell  me?"  the  inspector  asked, 
looking  at  him  intently. 

Monsieur  Dupont  smiled. 

"Only,  my  friend,  that  I  imagine  you  will 
find  it  an  interesting  and  somewhat  unusual 
case." 

"That's  not  enough — from  you,"  the  in- 
spector retorted. 

"If  I  may  be  permitted  to  advise — it  is  a 
case  in  which  you  would  do  well  to  ignore  the 
obvious." 

"I  want  more  than  that,"  insisted  the  in- 
spector. 

The  huge  Frenchman  remained  silent. 

"You  are  not  a  man  to  waste  your  time  on 
this  kind  of  entertainment,"  said  the  inspector 
slowly.  "Is  there  any  connection  between  the 
crime  to-night,  and  your  so-called  'riddle'  ?" 

"The  connection  of  death,"  said  Monsieur 
Dupont. 

There  was  something  of  awe  in  his  voice  and 
manner. 

"For  two  years,"  he  said,  "I  have  been  fol- 
lowing in  the  track  of  something,  which,  in 


THE  TRAIL  OF  CORPSES         67 

the  words  of  our  great  Dumas — 'must  have 
passed  this  way,  for  I  see  a  corpse/  " 

"That  quotation  referred  to  a  woman,"  said 
the  inspector  quickly. 

"From  me,"  returned  Monsieur  Dupont 
evenly,  "it  is  sexless — at  present." 

The  inspector  frowned. 

"Come,"  he  said  impatiently — "in  what  way 
are  you  mixed  up  in  this  ?" 

"In  the  way  of  my  quotation — a  corpse.  I 
started  my  quest  two  years  ago — over  a  dead 
body,  torn  and  mutilated.  At  the  end  of  the 
first  year  I  found  another  dead  body,  torn  and 
mutilated.  I  follow  on  and  on — from  one 
point  to  the  next  point — often  with  no  more 
than  the  instinct  of  the  hunter  to  guide  me. 
And  here,  at  the  end  of  the  second  year,  there 
is  yet  another  dead  body,  torn  and  mutilated. 
It  is  horrible.  I  sicken.  I  wish  I  had  re- 
mained in  my  retirement." 

"What  were  the  two  previous  crimes?"  the 
inspector  asked. 

"Two  women — two  very  beautiful  women." 

Inspector  Fay  started,  staring  at  him. 


68  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Miss  Manderson  was  a  beautiful  woman," 
he  said  slowly. 

Monsieur  Dupont's  enormous  head  nodded 
several  times. 

"She  was,"  he  agreed  deliberately.  "The 
most  beautiful  of  the  three." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  the 
inspector  laid  a  hand  on  the  Frenchman's 
shoulder. 

"We  have  worked  together  a  good  many 
times  in  the  past,"  he  said,  with  more  cordi- 
ality than  before. 

"We  have,  indeed,"  Monsieur  Dupont  re- 
sponded pleasantly. 

"And  though  your  methods  were  always 
fanciful  compared  with  our's,  I  know  enough 
of  your  powers  to  ask  you  a  simple,  straight 
question." 

"I  am  at  your  service,"  said  Monsieur  Du- 
pont. 

"You  were  here  on  the  spot  when  this  crime 
was  committed.  Who,  or  what,  smashed  the 
body  of  that  unfortunate  woman  to  pulp  in 
this  garden  to-night?" 

Monsieur  Dupont's  gigantic  form  seemed  to 


THE  TRAIL  OF  CORPSES         69 

acquire  a  new,  strange  dignity — a  solemnity — 
as  though  he  were  in  the  presence,  or  speaking, 
of  something  before  which  humanity  must  bow 
its  head. 

"A  Destroyer,"  he  whispered.  "A  De- 
stroyer who  strikes  with  neither  fear  nor  com- 
punction— and  passes  on  without  pity  or  re- 
morse. A  Destroyer  who  is  as  old  as  the  sins 
of  men,  and  as  young  as  the  futures  of  their 
children." 

"You  always  spoke  in  parables,"  the  in- 
spector exclaimed  irritably.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  "that  I 
believe  the  thing  which  passed  through  this 
crooked  garden  to-night,  leaving  death  so 
horribly  behind  it,  is  the  same  thing  that  has 
already  passed  on  twice  before  me,  and  left 
the  same  death  in  its  wake.  I  cannot  tell  you 
any  more.  Let  us  both  go  our  own  ways,  as 
we  have  done  so  many  times  before.  I  do  not 
wish  to  take  any  credit  in  this  affair.  If  I  am 
able  to  prove  its  connection  with  my  own  case, 
and  to  solve  it,  I  shall  hand  the  whole  matter 
over  to  you." 


70  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

The  inspector  appeared  somewhat  relieved. 

Monsieur  Dupont's  eyes  were  fixed  on  an  un- 
framed  photograph  of  Christine  Manderson, 
which  stood  on  a  small  cabinet  in  front  of  him. 

"Please  compound  a  felony,"  he  said  softly 
— and  slipped  it  into  his  pocket. 

"Where  are  you  to  be  found?"  the  inspector 
asked. 

"At  the  Hotel  Savoy."  He  yawned.  "I 
am  very  sleepy,"  he  complained.  "If  you  will 
finish  with  Mr.  Tranter  as  soon  as  possible,  he 
will  take  me  back  in  his  car." 

He  turned  to  the  door. 

"Stay,"  said  the  inspector. 

He  stopped. 

"You  have  not  lost  your  old  fantastic  kink," 
said  the  inspector,  with  a  faint  smile.  "The 
last  time  we  ran  together  you  were  five  minutes 
ahead  of  me  at  the  finish.  This  time — we  will 
see  who  is  the  first  to  pass  the  post." 

"My  friend,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  "I  will 
do  my  best  to  give  you  a  good  race." 

He  passed  out  of  the  room.  The  inspector 
followed  him  to  the  door,  and  called  for  Mr. 
Tranter.  ' 


CHAPTER  VII 
TRANTER 

' '  1%     /f  R*  TRANTER>"  said  the  insPec- 
^  / 1      tor,    "I    understand   that   you 

W  were  the  last  person  to  see  Miss 

Manderson  alive." 

"I  believe  I  was,"  Tranter  replied. 

The  inspector  sat  down  again  at  the  table, 
and  re-opened  his  note-book. 

"Will  you  kindly  tell  me  exactly  what  hap- 
pened from  the  time  you  went  out  into  the 
garden  after  dinner,  and  the  time  you  left  Miss 
Manderson  ?" 

"We  strolled  away  from  the  house  together, 
in  the  direction  of  the  river.  The  events  of 
the  evening  seemed  to  have  upset  her  very 
much,  and  she  was  nervous  of  the  storm.  We 
walked  about,  I  should  think,  for  nearly  half 
an  hour,  until  the  lightning  became  very 
vivid " 

"Did  you  see  or  hear  any  one  in  that  part 
71 


72  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

of   the   garden?"   the   inspector   interrupted. 

"No.  Most  of  the  others  went  to  the  lawns, 
in  the  opposite  direction.  When  the  lightning 
became  very  vivid,  Miss  Manderson  said  she 
would  return  to  the  house,  and  asked  me  to 
go  down  to  the  lawns  to  find  Mr.  Copplestone, 
and  send  him  in  to  her.  She  was  obviously 
unwell." 

"You  will  be  able  to  show  me  the  place 
where  you  left  her?" 

"I  think  so.  It  was  very  dark — but  I  re- 
member that  we  had  just  passed  under  a  num- 
ber of  rose-arches  across  the  path." 

"It  was,  I  presume,  further  away  from  the 
house  than  the  spot  where  the  body  was 
found?" 

"The  body  was  found  close  to  the  river, 
about  half-way  between  the  house  and  the  place 
where  I  left  her,"  Tranter  replied. 

"So  we  may  surmise  that  she  had  got  about 
half-way  to  the  house  before  the  attack  was 
made.  How  far  would  that  actually  be?" 

"Along  those  winding  paths,"  Tranter  cal- 
culated, "I  should  say  roughly  about  a  hundred 
and  fifty  yards." 


TRANTER  73 

"Did  she  start  to  walk  to  the  house  imme- 
diately you  left  her?" 

"Yes.  She  started  in  that  direction  as  I 
started  in  the  other." 

"Then,"  mused  the  inspector,  "she  must  have 
met  the  criminal,  whoever  it  was,  at  the  most 
within  three  minutes  of  leaving  you?" 

"Presumably  she  must,"  Tranter  agreed. 

"And  was  that,"  pursued  the  inspector, 
"about  the  spot  where  she  might  have  met  the 
young  man,  Layton,  who  was,  it  appears,  being 
chased  out  towards  the  river  by  Mr.  Bolsover?" 

"It  might  be.  But  I  do  not  know  anything 
about  the  chase.  If  I  had  known  that  Layton 
was  in  the  garden,  I  should  not  have  left  her." 

"Where  did  you  find  Mr.  Copplestone  ?" 

"On  the  lawns." 

"How  long  after  you  parted  from  her?" 

"Only  a  few  minutes.     Four  or  five." 

"Was  he  alone?" 

"Yes.  He  was  looking  for  Miss  Manderson 
himself.  He  went  into  the  house  at  once." 

Silence  followed  while  the  inspector  added 
to  his  notes. 

"Mr.  Tranter,"  he  said  quietly — and  his  eyes 


74  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

rested  for  a  moment  on  the  cigarette  on  the 
table,  "I  have  only  one  suggestion  to  make. 
You  will  understand  that  it  is  only  a  sugges- 
tion, but  I  want  to  be  perfectly  clear.  Con- 
sidering that  this  was  the  evening  of  Miss 
Manderson's  engagement  to  Mr.  Copplestone, 
might  she  not  have  been  expected  to  have 
strolled  away  from  the  house,  and  to  have  spent 
that  following  half-hour,  with  him  rather  than 
with  you?" 

Tranter  hesitated. 

"I  suppose  she  might,"  he  admitted. 

The  inspector  was  looking  at  him  sharply. 

"It  is  a  small  point,"  he  said  smoothly. 
"Perhaps  you  can  clear  it  up." 

There  was  another  pause.  Tranter  was 
plainly  embarrassed. 

"Inspector,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  must,  of 
course,  tell  you  everything — but  I  should  be 
obliged  if  for  obvious  reasons,  you  will  keep  as 
much  as  possible  to  yourself." 

"That,  sir,"  returned  the  inspector  firmly, 
"you  must  leave  to  my  discretion." 

"I  am  content  to  do  so,"  Tranter  said.  "The 
truth  is — I  had  met  Miss  Manderson  before." 


TRANTER  75 

"Ah !"  said  the  inspector  softly. 

"I  knew  her  first  nearly  six  years  ago,  in 
Chicago.  Her  real  name  was  not  Christine 
Manderson." 

The  inspector's  eyes  began  to  brighten.  He 
turned  to  a  fresh  page  in  his  note-book. 

"She  took  that  name,  she  told  me  to-night, 
when  she  went  on  the  stage  in  New  York. 
She  was  really  Thea  Colville." 

Inspector  Fay  started. 

"Thea  Colville?  The  Chicago  adven- 
turess?" 

"I  believe  some  people  called  her  that," 
Tranter  returned  shortly. 

"The  woman  who  ruined  Michael  Cran- 
bourne,  son  of  Joshua  Cranbourne,  the  Nitrate 
King?" 

"She  had  finished  with  Cranbourne  before 
I  knew  her,"  Tranter  replied.  "He  was  a 
scoundrel.  Whatever  happened,  she  certainly 
could  not  be  blamed." 

The  inspector  was  making  rapid  notes. 

"She  was  not  so  wild  as  she  was  painted," 
Tranter  continued.  "Women  with  such  beauty 
as  hers  have  a  thousand  temptations.  The 


76  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

sins  of  a  beautiful  woman  are  always  many 
degrees  blacker  than  the  sins  of  a  plain  one. 
We  became  very  intimate — and  I  am  afraid  I 
allowed  her  to  expect  more  from  me  than  I 
actually  intended.  I  was  called  back  to 
England  unexpectedly,  and  heard  nothing 
more  of  her  until  Mr.  Copplestone  brought  her 
into  this  room  to-night." 

He  stopped.  Emotion  had  crept  into  his 
voice. 

"During  the  most  part  of  your  conversation 
with  her,  were  you  walking  about,  or  standing 
still?" 

"Standing  still." 

"You  have  said  that  you  did  not  hear  any 
one  moving  about  near  you  while  you  were 
speaking  to  her?" 

"No." 

"Were  there  trees  or  hedges  about,  where 
some  one  might  have  hidden  to  overhear  you?" 

"There  was  a  hedge,"  Tranter  replied. 
"But  I  did  not  notice  the  spot  particularly." 

"You  will  be  able  to  point  it  out  to  me  to- 
morrow ?" 


TRANTER  77 

"I  think  so.  As  I  say,  I  did  not  particularly 
notice  it — and  the  possibility  of  being  over- 
heard certainly  did  not  occur  to  me.  I  am 
afraid  at  that  moment  caution  was  hardly  a 
consideration  with  either  of  us." 

The  inspector  closed  his  note-book. 

"Unless  circumstances  compel  me  to  do 
otherwise,"  he  promised,  "I  will  keep  your  story 
to  myself.  Will  you  tell  me  whether  the  an- 
nouncement of  Mr.  Copplestone's  engagement 
to  Miss  Manderson  produced  a  noticeable  effect 
on  any  particular  person  in  the  room  ?  Please 
do  not  hesitate  to  answer." 

"It  certainly  appeared  to  be  unwelcome  news 
to  Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe,"  Tranter  replied,  "but 
she  very  quickly  recovered  herself." 

"It  seemed,  in  fact,  to  be  a  considerable  shock 
to  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Were  you  in  the  room  when  this  young  man, 
James  Layton,  burst  in?" 

"I  was.  Monsieur  Dupont  and  I  had  just 
arrived." 

"It  is  true  that  he  said  'that  rather  'than 


78  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

allow  Miss  Manderson  to  become  engaged  to 
Mr.  Copplestone,  he  would  tear  her  to  pieces 
with  his  own  hands  ?" 

"Those  were  his  exact  words." 

The  inspector  rose. 

"I  understand  that  you  brought  Monsieur 
Dupont  here  with  you  as  your  friend?"  he  re- 
marked casually. 

"Yes.  He  only  arrived  in  London  last 
night." 

"Do  you  know  him  well?" 

"Fairly,"  Tranter  replied.  "I  am  under  a 
great  obligation  to  him.  He  saved  my  life 
in  Paris,  a  year  ago." 

"Has  he  mentioned  anything  of  the  business 
that  has  brought  him  to  this  country?"  the 
inspector  asked,  moving  to  the  door. 

"Only  that  he  had  come  to  solve  a  strange 
riddle." 

A  faint,  rather  grim  smile  passed  over  the 
inspector's  face. 

"I  am  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  he  said,  opening 
the  door.  "If  you  will  kindly  return  here  at 
ten  o'clock  in  the  morning — and  bring  Mon- 
sieur Dupont  with  you — I  shall  ask  you  to  show 


TRANTER  79 

me  the  various  places  you  have  referred  to  in 
the  garden." 

When  Tranter  returned  to  the  waiting-room, 
he  found  Monsieur  Dupont  asleep  in  an  arm- 
chair. The  room  was  very  quiet.  The  dan- 
seuse  had  subsided  into  an  interim  condition 
of  mute  tension.  Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe  was 
deathly  white,  but  perfectly  composed.  The 
men  made  occasional  remarks  to  each  other. 

"Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe,"  the  inspector  called. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MRS.    ASTLEY-ROLFE 

'"m      yJ^ADAM,"    said    the    inspector, 
I  ^  / 1      placing  a  chair  for  her,  "I  need 
W  only  trouble  you  with  one  or 

two  questions.  You  will  un- 
derstand that  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  account 
for  each  member  of  this  party,  so  that  I  may 
know  which  of  them  can,  or  cannot,  assist  me 
in  my  investigations." 

She  sat  down  with  a  weary  movement. 
Her  hands  trembled  slightly. 

"It  is  very  dreadful,"  she  shuddered.  "Such 
a  frightful  crime  is  inconceivable.  Who  could 
have  hated  the  poor  girl  so  dreadfully?" 

"That  remains  to  be  discovered,"  the  in- 
spector returned  quietly.  "I  have  no  doubt 
we  shall  succeed  in  clearing  it  up." 

"I    hope    you    will,"    she    said    fervently. 
"Please  ask  me  any  questions  you  b'ke." 
80 


MRS.  ASTLEY-ROLFE  81 

The  inspector  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  note- 
book. 

"You  went  into  the  garden  with  the  others 
after  dinner?" 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  with  whom,  and 
in  what  part  of  the  garden,  you  passed  the  time 
before  the  crime  was  discovered?" 

"I  was  alone,"  she  said  slowly. 

"The  whole  time?" 

"Yes.  I  was  not  feeling  very  well,  and  did 
not  want  the  trouble  of  talking.  I  walked 
away  by  myself." 

"You  know  the  way  about  the  garden  quite 
well?" 

"Quite." 

"In  what  direction  did  you  walk?" 

"To  the  croquet  lawn." 

"Did  you  see  anything  of  the  others  ?" 

"No." 

"Or  hear  any  voices  ?" 

"No." 

"Nothing  until  the  alarm  was  given?" 

"Nothing.  It  was  an  isolated  part  of  the 
garden.  When  I  heard  Mr.  Delamere  shout- 


82  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

ing,  I  ran  back  to  the  house,  and  found  them 
on  the  lawn." 

The  inspector  shot  a  keen  glance  at  her. 

"Did  you  know  Miss  Manderson  well?" 

"I  had  only  met  her  three  or  four  times." 

"I  suppose — being  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
women  on  the  American  stage,  and  about  to 
appear  for  the  first  time  in  London — you  heard 
her  a  good  deal  talked  about?" 

"Yes."  Her  voice  was  just  perceptibly 
harder.  "People  were  taking  great  interest 
in  her." 

"Did  you  hear  her  private  affairs,  and  mode 
of  life,  discussed  at  any  time?" 

"No." 

"Or  the  name  of  James  Layton,  the  million- 
aire philanthropist,  mentioned  in  conjunction 
with  her's?" 

"Never." 

"Thank  you,  madam.  I  need  not  trouble 
you  any  further.  Will  you  kindly  leave  me 
your  address,  in  case  I  should  have  to  ask  you 
for  any  more  information  ?" 

He  wrote  the  address  down,  and  bowed  her 
out. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  DANSEUSE 

"Tk     >TADAME  KRASHOFF,"  sum- 
I  %  / 1      moned  the  inspector. 
W  The  danseuse  was  in  a  con- 

dition of  the  utmost  distress. 
"Mon  Dieu!    Mon  Dieu!"  she  wept. 
"Please   calm  yourself,  madame,"  the   in- 
spector requested  patiently. 

"I  ken  nothin'  o'  the  creeme!"  she  sobbed 
thoughtlessly. 

"I  am  sure  of  that,"  he  declared  gravely. 
"I  merely  wish  to  establish  the  movements  of 
every  one  here.  With  whom  did  you  pass  the 
time  after  you  went  out  into  the  garden  until 
the  alarm  was  given?" 

"Wi'  M'soo  Gluckstein,"  she  whimpered. 
"All  the  time?" 
"N-no." 

"How  much  of  the  time?" 
83 


84  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

She  became  more  collected. 

"He  said  to  me  something  that  made  me 
angry,"  she  replied,  with  a  touch  of  viciousness. 
"I  walk  away  from  him.  Then  it  rain,  and  I 
overtook  him  as  I  go  back  to  the  house." 

"How  long  were  you  away  from  him?"  the 
inspector  asked. 

"Ma  foi,  I  cannot  tell.     Maybe  ten  minutes." 

"Did  you  see  any  one  else?" 

"No." 

"In  what  part  of  the  garden  were  you  when 
you  left  him  ?" 

"Behind  the  tennis  courrts." 

"That  is  some  way  from  the  river  ?" 

"Yes,  yes — ver'  far  away." 

"Thank  you,  madame." 


CHAPTER  X 
MR.  GLUCKSTEIN 

THE  financier  was  extremely  agitated, 
and  tried  to  shake  hands  with  the 
inspector. 

"Mr.  Gluckstein,  I  understand 
from  Madame  Krashoff  that  you  were  with  her 
in  the  garden  for  the  greater  part  of  the  time 
before  the  crime  was  discovered." 

"I  wath,"  the  financier  quivered — "indeed  I 
wath,  inthpector." 

"Then  she  left  you  for  about  ten  minutes?" 
"Not  tho  much  ath  ten  minutes,"  corrected 
the  financier  hastily. 

"What  did  you  do  after  she  left  you?" 
"I  stayed  vere  I  vath — until  the  rain  com- 
menthed." 

"Did  you  see  any  one  else?" 
"No  one  at  allth." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  inspector.     "Please 
85 


86  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

leave  me  your  address,  in  case  I  should  want 
to  ask  you  any  further  questions." 

The  financier  produced  a  card  with  trembling 
fingers. 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  CLERGYMAN 

"*m      JITR-  DELAMERE,"  said  the  in- 
1%  /•      spector,    "you    discovered    the 
y  I        body?" 

"I  did,"  replied  the  clergy- 
man, with  a  shiver. 

"Were  you  alone  when  you  found  it?" 
"Yes.     I  had  been  walking  with  Mr.  Bol- 
sover  for  about  quarter  of  an  hour.     Then  he 
turned  back  to  find  some  of  the  others,  and  I 
strolled  on  to  the  river." 

"Did  you  meet  any  one  else  ?" 
"No." 

"You  saw  nothing  of  this  young  man,  Lay- 
ton,  who  was  chased  towards  the  river  by  Mr. 
Bolsover?" 

"Nothing  whatever." 
"No  sounds  of  a  struggle?" 
"No.     I  heard  nothing." 
87 


88  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Was  the  body  lying  in  your  path?" 

"No.  Some  distance  aside.  I  saw  some- 
thing white  on  the  ground  in  one  of  the  light- 
ning flashes,  and  went  to  see  what  it  was." 

"I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  return  here  at 
ten  o'clock,  to  show  me  the  exact  spot." 

"Certainly." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Delamere." 


CHAPTER  XII 
MR.  BOLSOVER 

4 '  "1^     fiT  Y  God !"  exclaimed  the  manager, 
I  %  / 1      "what  an  appalling  business !" 
1    y  "It  is,"  the  inspector  agreed 

shortly. 

"She  was  to  have  appeared  at  my  theater, 
too,"  said  the  manager  ruefully. 

"I  understand  that  you  found  Layton  sneak- 
ing about  the  house?" 

"Yes.  I  first  strolled  out  with  Mr.  Dela- 
mere.  Then  I  left  him,  and  went  back  to  see 
where  the  others  had  got  to,  and  saw  Layton 
creeping  round  the  side  of  the  house  towards 
the  open  drawing-room  windows.  He  heard 
my  footsteps  on  the  path,  and  bolted." 
"To  the  river?" 

"Yes.     I  shouted  for  Mr.  Copplestone,  but 
there  was  no  answer — so  I  followed  him." 
"You  are  quite  certain  it  was  Layton?" 
89 


90  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Perfectly.  I  saw  his  face  in  the  light  of 
the  windows,  and  he  was  wearing  the  peculiar 
kind  of  slouch  hat  he  had  carried  when  he 
came  into  the  room. 

"Apparently  no  one  saw  him  in  the  garden 
except  yourself." 

"Unfortunately  not.  I  met  the  Frenchman, 
Monsieur  Dupont,  a  little  way  from  the  river 
— but  he  had  not  seen  him." 

"It  was  a  pity  you  did  not  manage  to  catch 
him,"  the  inspector  remarked. 

"Confound  it,  yes!  But  it  was  easy  to  get 
away  in  such  a  garden  as  this.  There  wasn't 
a  chance  of  finding  him." 

"What  did  you  do,  after  meeting  Monsieur 
Dupont?" 

"We  went  on  to  the  river  together.  I 
thought  I  saw  a  movement  among  the  trees 
when  the  lightning  lit  them  up — but  there  was 
nothing.  I  walked  round  about  there  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  then  went  back  to  warn  Cop- 
plestone." 

"Leaving  Monsieur  Dupont  by  the  river?" 

"Yes.  Before  I  reached  the  house,  I  heard 
Mr.  Delamere  shouting  the  alarm." 


MR.  BOLSOVER  91 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  inspector,  closing  his 
note-book.  "I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  trouble 
you  to  come  here  at  ten  o'clock  and  show  me 
certain  places  in  the  garden." 

"I  am  entirely  at  your  disposal,"  said  the 
manager. 

He  went  out.  The  inspector  sat  down  at 
the  table,  and  remained  perfectly  still  for  half 
an  hour. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  TRINITY  OF  DEATH 

IN  Tranter's  car,  its  owner  and  Monsieur 
Dupont  started,  at  half-past  one,  on  their 
return  from  the  crooked  house. 

The  storm  had  passed,  and  the  air  was 
fresh  and  cool.  It  was  possibly  the  atmos- 
pheric clearance  which  accounted  for  the  fact, 
that,  however,  fatigued  he  had  been,  or  ap- 
peared to  be,  at  the  end  of  his  conversation 
with  the  inspector,  Monsieur  Dupont  was  now 
particularly  wide-awake  and  alert. 

"Dieu!"  he  cried,  "what  a  terrible  crime! 
Almost  to  tear  that  woman  to  pieces — to  crush 
her — to  rend  her !  And  what  a  woman !  Ma 
foi,  what  a  woman !" 

There  was  a  pause.     Monsieur  Dupont  ac- 
cepted and  lit  a  cigar  from  Tranter's  case. 
"My  friend,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  wish  to  be 

quite  fair  to  you." 

92 


THE  TRINITY  OF  DEATH        93 

"Fair  to  me  ?"  Tranter  echoed,  surprised. 

"Something  happened  to-night  which  you 
doubtless  believe  to  be  unknown  to  every  one 
except  yourself." 

Tranter  turned  to  him  quickly. 

"I  have  not  the  habit,"  Monsieur  Dupont 
continued,  "of  listening  to  private  conversa- 
tions between  other  people.  It  is  only  on  very 
rare  occasions  that  I  have  done  so.  I  did  so 
to-night." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  Tranter  exclaimed. 

"In  that  horrible  garden,  before  the  crime 
was  committed,"  pursued  Monsieur  Dupont 
evenly,  "I  lost  my  way.  Such  a  garden  must 
have  been  especially  designed  to  cause  innocent 
people  to  lose  their  way.  I  wandered  about. 
How  I  wandered !" 

"What  did  you  overhear?"  asked  Tranter,  in 
a  strained  voice. 

"A  conversation — between  that  unfortunate 
Mademoiselle  Manderson,  and  yourself. 

"You  heard  it?"  Tranter  cried  sharply. 

"I  heard  it,"  admitted  Monsieur  Dupont. 
"I  heard  a  great  part  of  it.  I  believe  nearly 
all.  I  should  not  have  done  so.  Understand, 


94  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

I  make  you  all  my  apologies.  It  was  improper 
to  listen.  But  the  storm,  the  surroundings, 
the  scene  itself,  excited  me.  I  listened." 

Tranter  remained  silent. 
;    "I  continued  to  listen,  until  Mr.  Bolsover 
found  me.     He  was  following  that  young  man, 
Layton.     I  went  with  him  to  the  river." 

Tranter  was  still  silent — staring  straight  in 
front  of  him  with  fixed  eyes. 

"You  saw  a  picture  of  weakness,"  he  said, 
at  last.  "I  am  not  proud  of  it.  I  should 
much  prefer  to  be  able  to  think  that  no  one 
had  seen  it.  I  gave  Inspector  Fay  an  account 
of  the  whole  scene,  and  of  my  previous  ac- 
quaintance with  Christine  Manderson.  He 
promised  to  keep  it  to  himself.  I  hope  you 
will  do  the  same." 

"I  shall  indeed,"  the  other  assured  him. 

"I  am  only  human,"  Tranter  went  on,  with 
an  effort — "more  human  than  I  thought.  I 
resisted  her  once  by  taking  flight.  I  couldn't 
resist  her  to-night." 

He  mastered  his  emotion. 

"From  the  moment  she  first  came  into  the 
room  I  was  helpless.  I  knew  what  would  come 


THE  TRINITY  OF  DEATH        95 

of  it — but  I  couldn't  tear  myself  away.  It  was 
the  whole  spell — with  all  the  new  strength  of 
memories.  I  knew  she  intended  to  find  me 
alone  in  the  garden."  He  paused.  "I  had  to 
let  her." 

"Human  nature,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont 
consolingly,  "is  human  nature." 

Silence  followed.  Monsieur  Dupont 
thoughtfully  puffed  at  his  cigar. 

"A  crooked  house  in  a  crooked  garden,"  he 
said,  at  length,  "is  a  combination  from  which 
all  honest  people  should  shrink.  Those  who 
frequent  it  must  be,  for  the  most  part,  crooked 
people.  They  were,  for  the  most  part,  crooked 
people  to-night." 

"It  was  a  crooked  evening  from  beginning 
to  end,"  Tranter  said  wearily. 

"It  was  a  wicked  evening,"  Monsieur  Du- 
pont declared — "full  of  wicked  thoughts.  A 
crime  was  the  natural  and  logical  end  to  such 
an  evening.  It  would  have  been  surprising  if 
there  had  not  been  one." 

He  smoked  vigorously  for  some  moments — 
then  made  an  expansive  gesture. 

"Are  there  not,"  he  demanded,  "houses  and 


96  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

gardens  and  thunder-storms  that  awaken  cruel 
and  shameful  impulses  that  would  never  be 
aroused  in  other  houses  and  other  gardens  and 
other  storms  ?  Does  not  the  influence  of  good 
and  noble  decorations  uplift  us  to  joy  and 
patriotism?  Why  should  not  the  influence  of 
mean  and  sinful  decorations  degrade  us  to  mur- 
der and  destruction?  The  flags  that  fly  over 
the  innocent  revels  of  children  are  innocent 
flags,  and  inspire  kind  feelings  and  happiness. 
But  remove  the  same  flags  to  a  Bull-ring,  and 
they  become  evil  flags,  inspiring  lust  for  the 
blood  and  slaughter  of  helpless  creatures — the 
basest  of  human  instincts." 

"You  are  fantastic,"  said  Tranter,  with  a 
gloomy  smile. 

"In  fantasy,"  returned  Monsieur  Dupont, 
"are  the  world's  greatest  truths." 

He  carefully  deposed  the  ash  from  his  cigar. 

"Will  you  please  tell  me,"  he  went  on,  "some- 
thing more  about  our  strange  host  to-night — 
the  man  who  chooses  so  much  crookedness  to 
live  in,  when  there  is  straightness  to  be  had  for 
the  same  price?" 


THE  TRINITY  OF  DEATH        97 

"I  know  very  little  more  about  him  than  I 
told  you  last  night,"  Tranter  replied.  "He  is 
wealthy,  and  very  eccentric.  He  seems  to  pass 
his  life  in  a  perpetual  effort  to  be  different  from 
other  people." 

"He  is  more  than  eccentric,"  Monsieur  Du- 
pont  stated.  "He  is  mad.  In  a  few  years  he 
will  be  a  dangerous  lunatic.  And  the  Good 
God  only  knows  what  he  may  make  of  himself 
in  the  meantime." 

"There  are  plenty  of  strange  stories  about 
him,"  Tranter  said.  "But  I  have  always 
looked  on  them  as  greatly  exaggerated." 

"Probably,"  Monsieur  Dupont  remarked, 
"they  were  true." 

"Whatever  his  reputation  may  be,  women 
seem  very  ready  to  put  up  with  his  eccentrici- 
ties, or  pander  to  them,  in  return,  no  doubt, 
for  big  inroads  into  his  banking  account.  He 
is  very  free  with  his  money  where  the  opposite 
sex  is  concerned." 

"It  is  always  so,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont, 
"with  such  men." 

"He  mixes  chiefly  in  theatrical  and  bohem- 


98  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

ian  circles — and  often  by  no  means  the  most 
desirable  of  those.  The  better  people  look 
askance  on  him — but  he  is  supremely  indiffer- 
ent to  the  opinions  of  others,  and  to  all  the 
conventions.  Whatever  he  takes  it  into  his 
head  to  do  he  does,  quite  regardless  of  the 
approval  or  disapproval  of  other  people.  He 
is  certainly  not  a  man  I  would  introduce  to  any 
woman  who  possessed  even  the  smallest  degree 
of  physical  attraction.  He  is  supposed  to  be 
quite  unscrupulous  in  the  attainment  of  his 
objects." 

"Most  of  us  are,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont. 
"But  we  dislike  to  admit  it." 

He  looked  steadily  out  of  the  window  for  a 
moment. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  turning  back,  "what  he 
does  with  the  rest  of  that  house." 

"The  rest  of  the  house?"  Tranter  repeated. 

"It  is  very  large,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont. 
"It  is  large  enough  for  twenty  men." 

"In  this  country,"  Tranter  smiled,  "there  is 
no  law  against  one  man  living  in  a  house  large 
enough  for  twenty,  if  he  chooses." 

"When  only  a  small  part  of  a  house  is  used 


THE  TRINITY  OF  DEATH        99 

for  ordinary  purposes,"  remarked  Monsieur 
Dupont,  "the  remainder  is  often  used  for 
extraordinary  ones." 

"You  know  as  much  of  the  house  as  I  do," 
Tranter  returned. 

"As  a  practical  man,"  Monsieur  Dupont 
continued,  "you  may  smile  when  I  speak  of 
such  a  thing  as  'psychic  intuition.'  But  you 
may  smile,  and  again  you  may  smile.  I  possess 
that  intuition  strongly.  It  has  been  of  great 
use  to  me.  The  moment  I  entered  that  house 
to-night,  I  knew  it  was  a  house  of  sin.  I  knew 
there  were  hidden  things  in  it — things  that 
were  not  for  honest  eyes  to  see.  I  do  not  say 
— at  present — that  they  have  any  connection 
with  the  crime.  But  they  are  there." 

"I  do  not  smile  at  such  instincts,"  Tranter 
said.  "I  quite  admit  that  there  is  a  strange, 
uncanny  atmosphere  about  the  place.  And  if 
there  are  secrets  in  it,  I  am  equally  ready  to 
admit  that  they  are  probably  bad  ones." 

"They  are  bad  ones,"  declared  Monsieur 
Dupont.  "They  could  not  be  anything  but  bad 
ones.  When  that  excellent  Inspector  Fay  has 


ioo         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

solved  the  mystery  of  the  garden,  he  would  be 
wise  to  turn  his  attention  to  the  secrets. of  the 
house." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Did  Layton  kill  her?"  Tranter  asked  sud- 
denly. 

Monsieur  Dupont  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"The  evidence  is  against  him,"  he  replied 
judicially.  "Your  Coroner's  jury  will  find  him 
guilty,  and  the  police  will  not  look  further. 
They  will  build  up  a  strong  case.  They 
will  doubtless  find  that  he  was  cruelly 
treated  by  that  poor  girl,  and  was  furious  to 
know  that  she  was  engaged  to  another  man. 
He  threatened,  in  the  presence  of  many  wit- 
nesses, to  kill  her  in  a  horrible  way.  He  was 
seen  later  in  the  garden,  and  afterwards  she 
was  found — killed  in  exactly  that  horrible  way. 
Who  would  not  say  that  in  his  rage  and  jeal- 
msy  he  had  fulfilled  his  threat  ?  Every  one  will 
be  perfectly  satisfied.  It  is  enough  for  justice 
if  the  most  likely  person  is  hanged.  And,  so 
far,  he  is  not  only  the  most  likely,  but  the  only, 
person." 

"Perhaps  so,"  Tranter  acknowledged.     "But 


THE  TRINITY  OF  DEATH      101 

— he  didn't  look  like  a  murderer.  He  looked 
a  good  fellow.  Is  there  no  other  alternative?" 

"There  is  an  alternative,"  said  Monsieur 
Dupont  steadily. 

"There  is?" 

"Yes." 

Monsieur  Dupont  smoked  composedly  for  a 
minute. 

"My  friend,"  he  said — "are  you  inclined  for 
an  adventure?" 

"I  am  rather  busy,"  Tranter  replied. 
"What  is  it?" 

"Suppose  ...  I  were  to  declare  to  you 
positively  that  James  Layton  is  innocent — that 
he  did  not  commit  that  crime  in  the  crooked 
garden  to-night — and  that  I  do  not  intend  to 
allow  him  to  be  hanged  for  a  crime  that  he  did 
not  commit — would  you  give  a  certain  amount 
of  your  time  to  help  me  to  save  him  ?" 

"Certainly.     I  will  do  anything  I  can." 

"Then,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  "I  answer 
the  question  you  asked  a  moment  ago.  He 
did  not  kill  her." 

"Who  did?"  Tranter  demanded,  looking  at 
him  in  astonishment. 


102         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"That  is  another  matter.  It  is  one  thing  to 
say  who  did  not — but  quite  another  to  say  who 
did.  That  is  for  us  to  discover.  There  will 
be  very  little  time.  I  think  I  can  promise  you 
excitement.  Possibly  there  will  be  danger. 
You  do  not  object  to  that  ?" 

"I  have  faced  a  certain  amount  of  danger  in 
my  time,"  Tranter  replied. 

"Good,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont.  "Then  we 
will  set  ourselves — quite  apart  from  the  efforts 
of  our  friend,  Inspector  Fay — to  solve  the  mys- 
tery of  the  crooked  garden.  And  we  will  not 
speak  a  word  to  any  one  of  our  intention." 

"You  seem  to  have  some  very  definite  ideas 
on  the  subject  already,"  Tranter  observed. 

"Ah,  no,"  demurred  Monsieur  Dupont — "do 
not  credit  me  with  the  superhuman.  We  have 
a  very  difficult  task  before  us." 

"But  what  of  your  other  object,"  Tranter 
inquired — "the  'riddle'  that  you  came  over  to 
solve?" 

"It  may  be,"  Monsieur  Dupont  replied  care- 
fully, "that  there  is  some  connection  between 
my  riddle  and  this  dreadful  affair  to-night. 
At  present  I  cannot  say.  Only  events  them- 


THE  TRINITY  OF  DEATH      103 

selves  can  prove  that.  But  that  very  possi- 
bility compels  me  to  take  up  a  peculiar  attitude 
— unfortunately  a  most  necessary  one.  If  you 
will  assist  me — as  I  beg  you  to  do — you  must 
be  content  to  follow  my  guidance  and  instruc- 
tions without  question,  and  remain,  as  you  call 
it,  in  the  dark,  until  the  time  comes  for  all  to 
be  told." 

"You  are  certainly  the  most  mysterious  per- 
son I  have  ever  met!"  Tranter  exclaimed. 

"It  is  not  that  I  have  the  smallest  doubt  of 
yourself  or  your  discretion,"  Monsieur  Dupont 
hastened  to  explain.  "On  the  contrary.  It 
is  simply  that  my  position  at  this  moment  is  an 
extraordinary  one,  and  I  cannot  do  what  would 
seem  to  be  the  natural  and  ordinary  thing. 
Will  you  help  me  on  that  understanding?" 

"I  will  help  you  in  any  case,"  Tranter  agreed, 
smiling  slightly  at  his  companion's  intense 
seriousness.  "What  is  to  be  my  first  task?" 

""Your  first  task,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont 
gravely,  "is  to  deposit  me  at  the  Hotel  Savoy, 
and  call  for  me  later  on  your  way  back  to  Rich- 
mond." 

Tranter   spoke   some   instructions   through 


104         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

the  speaking-tube  to  the  chauffeur.  When  he 
turned  again,  Monsieur  Dupont  was  asleep. 
He  did  not  open  his  eyes  again  until  the  car 
stopped  at  the  Savoy. 

Entering  the  hotel,  he  ascended  to  his  room. 
In  it,  he  mixed  himself  a  whisky-and-soda,  sat 
down  at  the  writing-table,  and  unlocked  a 
despatch-box. 

He  took  out  two  photographs — each  of  a 
remarkably  beautiful  woman. 

Under  one  was  neatly  written — 

Colette  d'Orsel.     Nice.     August  ipoo. 

And  under  the  other — 

Margaret  McCall.    Boston.     Dec.  1910. 

From  his  pocket  he  took  the  photograph 
which  the  inspector  had  allowed  him  to  appro- 
priate, and  laid  it  beside  the  others.  The  face 
that  smiled  up  at  him  was  the  most  beautiful 
of  the  three. 

He  dipped  a  pen  in  the  ink,  and  wrote  under 
it,  in  the  same  neat  handwriting — 

Christine  Manderson.    London.    July  1919. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
WITHOUT  TRACE 

AT  ten  o'clock,  Tranter  and  Monsieur 
Dupont  stood  with  Inspector  Fay 
in  the  garden.     The  Rev.  Percival 
Delamere  joined  them  a  few  minutes 
later,    and    the    theatrical    manager    arrived 
shortly  afterwards.     Finally,  still  in  the  same 
half-dazed     condition,     George     Copplestone 
emerged  from  the  house. 

f(Mon  Dieu,"  Monsieur  Dupont  whispered 
quickly.  "Look  at  that  man!" 

His  face  was  white,  with  a  sickly  pasty 
whiteness.  In  the  few  hours  that  had  passed 
he  seemed  to  have  wasted  to  a  startling  gaunt- 
ness.  His  cheeks  were  drawn,  his  sunken  eyes 
dull  and  filmy.  He  moved  slowly  and  heavily, 
as  if  compelling  himself  under  an  utter  weari- 
ness. 

"What  do  you  want  first?"  he  asked  the  in- 
spector curtly. 

105 


106         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"First,"  replied  Inspector  Fay,  "I  want  to 
be  shown  the  spot  where  the  body  was  found." 

Copplestone  led  the  way  across  the  lawns. 
In  the  daylight  Monsieur  Dupont  eagerly  fol- 
lowed the  maze  of  winding  paths  and  hedges 
that  had  imprisoned  him  so  helplessly  in  the 
darkness.  It  was  a  veritable  looking-glass 
garden.  The  end  of  every  path  mocked  its  be- 
ginning. To  reach  an  object  it  was  necessary 
to  walk  away  from  it.  To  arrive  at  the  bank 
of  the  river,  Copplestone  conducted  his  follow 
ers  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"This  garden  might  have  been  designed  for 
a  crime,"  the  inspector  remarked,  as  they 
turned  yet  another  corner. 

"It  was,"  Monsieur  Dupont  agreed  from 
the  rear.  "It  was  designed  for  the  most 
abominable  crime  of  making  men  and  women 
go  backwards  instead  of  forwards.  And  last 
night  it  attained  the  height  of  its  purpose." 

For  an  instant  Copplestone  glanced  back  at 
him,  a  quickening  in  his  dull  eyes.  A  moment 
afterwards  they  turned  a  final  corner,  and 
emerged  on  to  the  broad  lawns,  sloping  down 
to  the  edge  of  the  river. 


WITHOUT  TRACE  107 

Copplestone  halted,  and  looked  round,  meas- 
uring distances.  Then  he  moved  on,  keeping 
close  to  the  trees. 

"About  here,  I  think,"  said  the  clergyman, 
pausing. 

Copplestone  stopped  a  few  paces  ahead. 

"It  was  very  dark,"  he  said,  looking  at  the 
ground.  "I  don't  think  I  knew  exactly  where 
we  were.  As  near  as  I  can  judge,  it  was  just 
here." 

"There  ought  to  have  been  some  sign  left 
to  mark  the  place  when  the  body  was  taken 
away,"  the  inspector  said  sharply. 

"You  will  find,"  said  the  quiet  voice  of  Mon- 
sieur Dupont,  "a  pencil  in  the  ground  at  the 
exact  spot.  It  is  a  useful  pencil,  and  I  should 
be  obliged  if  you  would  kindly  return  it  to 
me." 

The  inspector  shot  him  a  rather  grim  smile. 
All,  except  Copplestone,  bent  down  to  look  for 
the  sign. 

"Here  it  is,"  Tranter  exclaimed,  pulling  a 
pencil  out  of  the  ground.  They  stood  aside  to 
give  the  inspector  room. 

"The  rain  has  washed  away  any  traces  that 


io8         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

might  have  helped  us,"  that  official  grumbled, 
after  a  fruitless  search. 

"And  even  if  it  had  not,"  the  manager  ob- 
served, "you  would  only  have  found  traces  of 
all  of  us,  as  we  were  all  here." 

The  inspector  continued  his  examination. 
Copplestone  stood  apart,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
river.  He  did  not  appear  to  be  taking  the 
slightest  interest  in  the  proceedings. 

"In  what  position  was  the  body  lying?" 
the  inspector  asked,  looking  up  at  the  clergy- 
man. 

"It  was  so  horribly  contorted  that  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  say  in  what  position  it  was  lying," 
the  latter  replied,  bending  down  beside  him. 
"The  head,  I  think,  lay  towards  the  river,  and 
the  feet  towards  the  trees." 

"It  was  so  when  we  came,"  Copplestone  cor- 
roborated, without  turning  his  head. 

"There  are  no  signs  of  a  struggle  here," 
said  the  inspector,  straightening  himself  after 
another  pause.  "If  there  had  been  one,  some 
of  the  heavier  indications  might  have  remained 
in  spite  of  the  rain." 


WITHOUT  TRACE  109 

"It  is  possible,"  Monsieur  Dupont  suggested, 
"that  the  body  was  carried  here  from  the  place 
where  the  struggle  did  take  place." 

"Quite  possible,"  the  inspector  agreed.  He 
turned  to  Tranter.  "Will  you  show  us  now, 
Mr.  Tranter,  where  you  parted  from  Miss 
Manderson?" 

"I  am  not  familiar  with  the  garden,"  Tranter 
replied.  "I  only  know,  as  I  told  you  last  night, 
that  we  had  just  passed  under  some  arches 
across  the  path.  I  do  not  know  where  they 
are." 

"Mr.  Copplestone  will  show  us,"  said  the 
inspector. 

Copplestone  started  at  the  sound  of  his  own 
name,  and  turned  to  them. 

"What  next?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"The  rose  arches,"  returned  the  inspector. 

Copplestone  indicated  an  opening  in  the  trees, 
some  distance  ahead  of  them. 

"Over  here,"  he  directed,  moving  towards 
it. 

There  were  twelve  ornamental  arches,  over- 
grown with  roses.  Monsieur  Dupont  looked 


no         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

at  the  wealth  of  flowers  almost  with  reverence. 

"So  far,"  he  muttered,  "the  only  innocent 
things  I  have  seen  in  this  garden." 

Tranter  stopped  at  a  point  where  several 
paths  intersected. 

"I  left  her  here,"  he  said.  "I  went  down 
that  path  to  the  right,  which  she  told  me  would 
lead  to  the  main  lawns  where  I  should  be  most 
likely  to  Mr.  Copplestone.  She  said  she  was 
going  straight  back  to  the  house." 

"She  should  have  taken  that  path,"  Copple- 
stone said,  turning  to  one  in  another  direction. 
"That  is  the  way  to  the  house." 

"Did  she  know  the  garden  well?"  asked  the 
inspector. 

"Perfectly  well." 

"Still,  she  might  easily  have  taken  a  wrong 
turning  in  the  darkness." 

"She  might.  But  it  is  about  the  straight- 
est  path  in  the  garden.  I  don't  think  she 
would  have  made  a  mistake." 

Slowly  and  carefully  Inspector  Fay  followed 
the  path  to  the  house,  under  the  guidance  of 
Copplestone.  Every  yard  of  the  way  was  ex- 
amined, but  yielded  nothing.  The  inspector's 


WITHOUT  TRACE  in 

face  became  darker  and  darker.  He  stopped 
when  they  turned  a  corner  and  found  them- 
selves at  the  house. 

"She  could  not  possibly  have  got  so  far  as 
this  before  the  attack  was  made,"  he  said  dis- 
contentedly. 

"Impossible,"  agreed  the  manager.  "If  the 
murderer  had  killed  her  here,  he  would  have 
left  her  here.  He  would  not  have  taken  the 
risk  of  dragging  her  all  the  way  to  the  river." 

"It  seems  a  curious  thing,"  the  clergyman 
remarked,  "that  apparently  she  did  not  utter 
any  cry  for  help." 

"Ah!"  said  Monsieur  Dupont  quietly. 

He  looked  at  the  clergyman  with  a  new  in- 
terest. Copplestone  also  glanced  at  him 
quickly. 

"Even  the  thunder  would  hardly  have 
drowned  a  sharp  cry,  and  some  one  would 
surely  have  heard  it." 

"Probably  she  hadn't  time,"  suggested  the 
manager.  "No  doubt  he  sprang  out  and  at- 
tacked her  from  the  back.  He  must  have  been 
as  quick  as  the  lightning  itself." 

Monsieur  Dupont  drew  Tranter  aside. 


H2         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Our  clerical  friend  does  not  realize  the 
importance  of  his  own  point,"  he  said  softly. 
"But  he  has  put  his  finger  on  the  key  to  the 
whole  mystery." 

"The  key?"  Tranter  repeated. 

"If  Christine  Manderson  had  uttered  a  cry 
for  help,  this  would  have  been  a  simple, 
straightforward  case,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont. 
"In  the  fact  that  she  did  not  lies  the  whole 
secret  of  the  crime." 

"Bolsover's  reason  would  seem  to  be  the 
obvious  one,"  Tranter  returned.  "The  as- 
sault must  have  been  made  so  quickly  that 
she  had  no  time." 

"Mr.  Bolsover's  reason  is,  as  you  say,  the 
obvious  one,"  admitted  Monsieur  Dupont. 
"But  it  is  not  the  correct  one.  I  have  already 
warned  Inspector  Fay  to  disregard  the  obvious. 
If  he  will  not  take  my  advice,  that  is  lys  af- 
fair." 

"But  what  do  you  mean?"  asked  Tranter. 

Monsieur  Dupont's  voice  sank  lower. 

"Don't  you  see  that  a  cry  for  help  would 
have  completely  transformed  the  whole  case? 
It  would  have  brought  it  down  in  one  crash  to 


WITHOUT  TRACE  113 

a  human  level.  It  is  the  silence — the  utter, 
horrible  silence — that  makes  it  what  it  is.  It 
is  the  silence " 

The  inspector's  voice  recalled  them. 

"Now,  Mr.  Bolsover,  just  whereabouts  was 
Layton  when  you  disturbed  him  ?" 

"He  was  sneaking  round  there,"  the  man- 
ager replied,  pointing  to  a  corner  of  the  house, 
"towards  the  drawing-room  windows." 

"Which  path  did  he  run  to  when  he  saw 
you?" 

"That  one— to  the  river." 

"Does  that  path  communicate  anywhere  with 
the  one  which  we  presume  Miss  Manderson 
was  following  to  the  house?" 

"Yes,"  said  Copplestone. 

They  moved  along  the  path  indicated  by  the 
manager.  It  twisted  about  unproductively  for 
some  distance. 

"How  far  was  he  in  front  of  you?"  asked 
the  inspector. 

"I  don't  know,"  confessed  the  manager. 
"I  should  say  about  ten  yards  when  we  started 
— but  I  am  not  much  of  a  runner.  I  had  lost 
him  altogether  before  I  got  here." 


ii4         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

They  went  on. 

"That  cursed  rain,"  the  inspector  muttered. 

"This  is  the  branch  that  leads  to  the  other 
path,"  said  Copplestone,  halting. 

"And  it  was  further  along  there,  by  that 
fir  tree  that  I  met  Monsieur  Dupont,"  added 
the  manager. 

"That  is  so,"  agreed  Monsieur  Dupont. 
"Layton  certainly  did  not  come  beyond  this 
point  in  my  direction." 

"By  taking  that  branch,"  the  inspector  cal- 
culated, "he  would  have  met  Miss  Manderson 
just  at  the  time  that  the  crime  was  commit- 
ted." 

"He  would,"  said  the  manager. 

Monsieur  Dupont  turned  again  to  Tranter. 

"We  must  be  quick,"  he  whispered,  "Lay- 
ton  is  already  hanged." 

"There  doesn't  seem  to  be  much  chance  for 
him,"  returned  Tranter.  "It  will  be  a  very 
strong  case.  No  criminal  could  complain  at 
being  hanged  on  such  evidence." 

"And  yet,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont  slowly, 
"so  far  as  the  actual  crime  is  concerned,  there 


WITHOUT  TRACE  115 

is  not  a  single  trace.  Not  one  single  trace. 
Is  it  not  extraordinary?" 

He  doubled  his  fists. 

'That  luck!"  he  ground  out  angrily. 
"Again  that  luck!" 

"What  luck?"  Tranter  exclaimed. 

"If  that  most  unfortunate  young  man  had 
not  come  here  and  made  a  fool  of  himself  last 
night,  the  police  might  have  searched  forever 
without  finding  a  clue.  There  is  no  clue  here. 
And  there  was  the  rain.  The  vejy  elements 
sweep  up  after  the  passing  of  the  Destroyer." 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  Tranter 
cried. 

"Hush !"  said  Monsieur  Dupont. 

"I  am  obliged  to  you,  gentlemen,"  said  the 
inspector.  "Your  evidence  will  of  course  be 
required  at  the  inquest,  of  which  you  will  re- 
ceive notice.  I  need  not  detain  you  any 
longer." 

The  clergyman  and  the  manager  hurried 
away.  Monsieur  Dupont  lingered  at  the  in- 
spector's side,  and  Tranter  strolled  back  with 
Copplestone. 


u6         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Well?"  queried  the  inspector.  "Not  much 
doubt  about  it,  is  there?" 

"You  have  a  strong  case,"  said  Monsieur 
Dupont.  "Very  strong." 

"You  agree  with  it?" 

Monsieur  Dupont  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"At  all  events,  I  am  not  in  position,  at  pres- 
ent, to  contradict  it." 

"You  will  have  your  work  cut  out  to  build 
up  another  one,"  said  the  inspector  compla- 
cently. "There  isn't  a  trace." 

"That  is  it,"  said  the  other  sharply.  "There 
is  no  trace.  There  is  never  a  trace."  He 
lowered  his  voice  cautiously.  "One  point  I 
recommend  to  you,  as  I  have  just  recom- 
mended it  to  Tranter — that  remark  of  Mr. 
Delamere  that  there  was  no  cry  for  help." 

"What  of  it?"  returned  the  inspector. 

"It  is  the  key,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont. 

He  moved  on  abruptly,  and  overtook  Tran- 
ter. 


CHAPTER    XV 
A  BUILDER  OF  MEN 

JAMES  LAYTON  occupied  two  dingy 
rooms,  in  a  dilapidated  house,  situated 
between  a  church  and  a  public-house, 
in  as  squalid  and  unwholesome  a  street 
as  any  in  the  East  End  of  London.  In  them  he 
spent  such  time  as  was  left  to  him — and  it  was 
not  much — after  his  active  ministrations 
among  the  denizens  of  the  miserable  neighbor- 
hood. They  were  scantily  furnished,  and  of 
comforts  there  were  none.  He  denied  himself 
anything  beyond  the  barest  necessities  of  ex- 
istence, with  the  exception  of  a  few  books  and 
pipes,  which  were  the  companions  of  his  odd 
moments  of  leisure,  and  he  read  and  smoked  in 
a  hard  wicker  chair,  destitute  even  of  a  cushion. 
He  ate  sparingly,  of  food  scarcely  better  than 
that  on  which  his  neighbors  subsisted,  and 

drank  little.     His  clothes  were  poor,  his  shirts 
117 


n8         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

frayed,  and  his  boots  patched — and  his  income 
was  a  thousand  pounds  a  week. 

In  his  work  he  was  unusually  broad-minded 
and  unprejudiced.  He  spent  none  of  his  time 
in  efforts  to  lure  the  occupants  of  the  public- 
house  on  his  left  into  the  church  on  his  right. 
Indeed,  he  was  an  excellent  customer  of  the 
former  institution,  and  was  on  the  best  of  terms 
with  its  landlord,  who  was  an  ex-pugilist  after 
his  kind.  He  made  no  discrimination  in  the 
dispensation  of  his  charity.  He  worked  on 
the  principle  that  before  he  reformed  a  man 
he  must  feed  him — so  before  he  attempted  to 
deal  with  the  mind  he  relieved  the  body.  He 
was  open-handed  and  unsuspicious — and  won- 
derfully beloved.  There  were  hundreds  of 
people  in  that  street,  and  many  other  streets, 
who  would  gladly  have  laid  down  their  lives 
for  him — and  who  imposed  on  him  shockingly 
day  after  day  in  the  minor  matters  of  life. 
The  Mad  Philanthropist  never  turned  away — 
never  refused.  He  was  a  builder  of  Men.  No 
one  knew,  or  cared,  who  he  was  or  whence  he 
came.  He  never  gave  account  of  himself,  or 
spoke  of  his  own  affairs.  Curiosity  was  the 


A  BUILDER  OF  MEN  119 

one  thing  he  resented.  He  enclosed  himself,  so 
far  as  private  matters  were  concerned,  within 
the  fortifications  of  a  reserve  which  no  one  had 
succeeded  in  penetrating.  Though  he  held  a 
thousand  confidences,  he  made  none.  In  listen- 
ing to  the  experiences  of  others  he  never  re- 
ferred to  his  own,  or  even  hinted  whether 
they  had  been  sweet  or  bitter.  He  went  on 
his  silent  way — and  the  world  was  the  better 
for  him. 

In  his  bare  sitting-room  he  sat  with  his  face 
between  his  hands.  A  girl  knelt  on  the  floor 
beside  him. 

She  was  a  remarkable  girl.  Wild,  way- 
ward, with  all  the  passions — brimful  with  un- 
tamed vitality — incapable  of  the  common  re- 
straints. Her  face  was  neither  beautiful,  nor, 
perhaps,  even  pretty — but  Diana  herself  might 
have  envied  the  full,  lithe  figure,  the  free  grace 
of  her  movements.  She  was  the  creature  of 
her  desires — knowing  no  laws  that  opposed 
them.  A  Primitive  Woman,  from  the  dawn 
of  the  world. 

"Jim,"  she  pleaded.     "Jim  .  .  ." 


120         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

He  made  no  movement. 

"Be  a  man,"  she  whispered.  "Pull  your- 
self together." 

He  put  her  away  from  him  roughly. 

"I  wish  you'd  go,"  he  said  dully.  .  "I  don't 
want  you  here." 

Her  face  grew  whiter.  Her  hands  crept  to 
him  again.  The  light  of  a  great  love  was  in 
her  eyes. 

"Oh,  Jim,"  she  whispered,  "I  know  I'm  not 
like  she  was.  I'm  not  beautiful.  I'm  not  won- 
derful. I  haven't  anything  that  she  had.  Oh, 
I  know  all  that  ...  so  well." 

He  uncovered  his  face — it  was  haggard  and 
bloodless,  the  face  of  a  man  in  the  throes  of  a 
mental  hell — and  looked  at  her,  almost  with 
revulsion. 

"You?"  he  cried  harshly.  "You  .  .  .  ? 
You  dare  to  name  yourself  to  me  in  the  same 
breath  with  her?  Get  up,  and  look  at  your- 
self !"  He  pointed  to  a  cracked  mirror  on  the 
mantel-piece.  "Look!"  he  said  hoarsely, 
thrusting  her  away  from  him  again.  "Do  you 
see  how  coarse  and  heavy  and  rough  you  are? 
She  was  light  and  delicate — like  a  snowflake. 


A  BUILDER  OF  MEN  121 

She  never  seemed  to  touch  the  ground.  Your 
hair  is  like  string — your  hands  are  large — your 
voice  is  harsh.  Her  hair  was  like  silk — gold 
silk  in  the  sunshine.  I  could  see  through  her 
hands.  Her  voice  was  music.  I  want  you  to 
go.  You  are  in  my  way. 

She  sprang  up,  raging. 

"She  never  loved  you!"  she  cried.  "She 
never  cared  for  you — or  even  thought  of  you! 
She  wasn't  fit  to  touch  you — to  look  at  you!" 

His  face  was  aflame. 

"Stop!"  he  shouted. 

"I  hate  her !"  she  declared  fiercely.  "I  hate 
her  memory!  I'm  glad  she's  dead!" 

He  lunged  forward  from  his  chair,  and 
seized  her.  In  his  fury  he  nearly  struck  her. 

"As  God's  above  us,"  he  panted,  "one  more 
word.  .  .  ."  His  rage  choked  him.  The 
words  jammed  in  his  throat. 

She  wrenched  herself  free.  His  arms 
dropped  to  his  sides.  He  reeled  dizzily. 

"You  may  do  what  you  like  to  me,"  she  cried 
passionately.  "I  tell  you — I'm  glad  she's  dead ! 
She  deserved  to  die.  She  was  wicked  and 
cruel.  I  think  God  Himself  destroyed  her." 


122         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

He  sank  back  into  his  chair  weakly.  A  sob 
shook  him. 

"God  did  not  destroy  her,"  he  said  slowly. 
"God  never  destroys.  He  only  builds.  It  is 
men  and  women  who  destroy." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  She  came  close 
to  him  again,  all  her  anger  swallowed  up  in  a 
great  sympathy. 

"Jim,"  she  asked  softly  .  .  .  "was  she  so 
much  to  you?" 

He  became  suddenly  rigid. 

"How  did  you  come  to  know  her?  She 
wasn't  your  sort.  She  couldn't  have  had  any* 
thing  in  common  with  you.  What  have  you 
to  do  with  women  like  that?" 

His  eyes  narrowed  threateningly.  Her 
questions  had  struck  him  into  a  new  alertness. 
She  noticed  that  his  knees  were  pressed  to- 
gether. 

"The  papers  said  she  only  came  to  England 
two  months  ago — for  the  first  time.  It  hasn't 
all  happened  since  then.  I  know  it  hasn't. 
There  must  have  been  something  else.  Some- 
thing before.  What  was  it  ?" 


A  BUILDER  OF  MEN  123 

He  sat  glaring  at  her — locking  and  unlock- 
ing his  hands. 

"It  all  happened  since  then,"  he  said  jerkily. 
"I  had  never  seen  her  before.  There  was  noth- 
ing else." 

"I  don't  believe  it,  Jim,"  she  declared. 
"You  are  hiding  something." 

He  avoided  her  steady  gaze. 

"Believe  it  or  not,  as  you  like,"  he  retorted. 

"People  say  there  is  some  secret  in  your 
life,"  she  said.  "I  believe  there  is.  And  I 
believe  it  was  her  secret  too." 

He  lunged  forward  again,  in  a  fresh  parox- 
ysm of  fury. 

"What  is  it  to  you?"  he  cried  shrilly — "or 
to  any  one?  Why  do  you  pry?  Suppose  I 
have  my  secrets.  They  are  no  concern  of 
yours.  I  give  away  my  money — my  life. 
Isn't  it  enough?  What  would  you  be — what 
would  any  of  them  be  now — but  for  me?  I 
work  day  and  night  for  others.  Can't  I  keep 
my  soul  to  myself?" 

"Jim,"  she  said  gently,  "I'm  not  prying.  I 
don't  want  to  know  your  secrets.  I  only 


124         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

wanted  to  make  it  lighter  for  you,  if  you'd  let 
me." 

"You  can't  make  it  lighter  for  me,"  he  re- 
turned. "No  one  can  make  it  lighter.  I  don't 
want  to  be  interfered  with.  I  want  to  be  left 
alone.  What  right  have  you  to  try  to  judge 
me?" 

"Judge  you?"  she  echoed.  "Who  could 
want  to  judge  you  ?  Why,  you  are  the  noblest 
man  in  all  the  world.  No  one  could  do  more 
good  than  you  do.  Every  man,  woman,  and 
child  here  worships  you,  and  would  die  for 
you." 

His  anger  instantly  subsided. 

"Ah,  yes!"  he  said  greedily— "tell  me  that. 
That's  what  I  want  to  hear.  Tell  me  they 
worship  me — that  no  one  could  do  more  good 
'than  I  do — that  men  and  women  would  die  for 
me.  Go  on  telling  me  that !" 

Her  voice  thrilled  with  her  love  for  him. 

"You  brought  us  light  and  life.  You  have 
raised  hundreds — as  you  raised  me — out  of 
misery  and  filth.  Think  of  all  the  children 
you  have  sent  away  from  this  poison  into  the 


A  BUILDER  OF  MEN  125 

green  fields  and  the  sunshine — who  would  have 
died." 

"Yes!  yes!"  he  cried.  "Go  on!  Go  on! 
All  the  children  .  .  ." 

"You  are  building  them,"  she  said — her 
whole  being  transformed  with  tenderness. 
"You  are  making  them  fit  to  be  men  and 
women.  They  wouldn't  have  been  fit  without 
you.  You  are  teaching  them  how  to  be  clean 
and  happy.  You  are  showing  them  that  they 
needn't  be  the  dregs  of  humanity — that  these 
hovels  needn't  be  their  world.  You  are  giv- 
ing them  new  interests,  new  thoughts,  new 
hopes.  Oh,  what  could  be  more  wonderful — 
more  splendid?  It  is  God's  own  work." 

"Yes!  yes!"  he  cried  again.  "God's  work! 
I  am  doing  God's  work!" 

He  paced  up  and  down  the  room  eagerly — 
feasting  on  her  words — drinking  her  praises  as 
an  exhausted  man  might  drink  an  invigorating 
draught.  He  was  in  the  grip  of  a  feverish 
energy.  His  blood  was  racing. 

His  quick  steps  shook  the  wretched  room. 
The  floor  creaked  under  his  tread.  A  lamp  on 
the  table  rattled.  The  girl  watched  him  nerv- 


126         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

ously.  She  put  out  a  hand  to  check  him,  but 
he  brushed  it  aside.  His  looks,  his  movements, 
frightened  her.  He  seemed  to  be  gazing  out 
beyond  the  narrow  walls  into  a  space  of  surg- 
ing memories,  that  sported  with  his  reason. 
He  muttered  incoherently,  oblivious  of  her 
presence.  She  grew  frightened. 

"Jim-"  she  cried  sharply. 

He  started,  and  stopped,  looking  at  her  va- 
cantly. 

"My  work,"  he  said  restlessly.  "I  must  get 
on  with  my  work.  I  haven't  done  enough 
.  .  .  nearly  enough.  I  must  go  on  building 
...  go  on  giving  light." 

He  let  her  put  a  hand  on  his  arm  and  move 
him  gently  back  to  his  chair.  He  sat  down, 
and  stared  at  her  in  a  dazed  fashion,  as  one 
returning  to  consciousness. 

"Why  haven't  you  gone?"  he  said  heavily. 
"I  asked  you  to  go." 

"I'm  not  going,  Jim,"  she  returned.  "I  can't 
leave  you  like  this.  You're  not  fit  to  be  left." 

His  face  darkened  again. 

"I  am  perfectly  fit  to  be  left,"  he  said  hardly. 
"And  I  wish  to  be  alone." 


A  BUILDER  OF  MEN  127 

"When  you  are  better,  I'll  go,"  she  said 
quietly — "if  you  want  me  to." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"I  am  better  now,"  he  said  wearily.  "I 
am  quite  well.  I  want  you  to  go.  Why  do 
you  persist  in  staying  when  I  want  you  to  go  ?" 

The  girl's  self-control  deserted  her.  She 
burst  into  a  storm  of  weeping. 

"I  won't  go,"  she  sobbed.  "I  won't  go — 
because  you  are  in  trouble — and  I  love  you. 
I  don't  care  whether  you  want  me  or  not.  I 
love  you." 

He  heard  her  indifferently.  Neither  her 
tears  nor  her  passion  moved  him. 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,"  he  snapped.  "Love 
is  nothing  to  me.  I  hate  the  word.  You 
might  as  well  talk  of  loving  the  Monument  as 
me." 

"You  lifted  me  up,"  she  cried.  "You  saved 
my  soul  and  body.  I  was  lower  than  any  of 
the  others  before  you  came.  You  taught  me 
— and  I've  tried  to  learn  your  lessons.  But, 
oh,  if  you  didn't  mean  me  to  love  you,  you 
should  have  left  me  where  I  was." 

"You  were  a  good  girl,"  he  said,  with  tired 


128         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

tolerance.  "You  learnt  well.  But  I  didn't 
mean  you  to  love  me.  I  don't  want  you  to  love 
me.  What  I  have  done  for  you  was  only  part 
of  my  work — like  the  others.  I  don't  want 
any  woman  to  love  me.  I  tell  you,  I  hate  the 
word.  It  means  nothing  to  me.  I  only  want 
to  go  on  .  .  ." 

Her  sobs  ceased.  She  stood  very  still. 
Her  face  was  torn,  but  he  was  not  looking  at 
her.  She  turned,  and  went  slowly  towards  the 
door,  her  head  bowed.  She  seemed  to  be 
shrunken  and  small.  All  her  vitality  had  gone. 
She  moved  like  an  old  woman,  weakly. 

The  door  opened  before  she  reached  it.  Two 
men  stood  in  the  passage.  She  started  back. 
One  of  them  came  a  few  paces  into  the  room, 
looking  at  the  man  in  the  chair. 

"Mr.  James  Layton?" 

He  rose  unsteadily. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  am  James  Layton.  What 
do  you  want  ?" 

"We  are  police  officers,  investigating  the 
murder  of  Miss  Christine  Manderson." 

The  girl  uttered  a  cry,  and  sprang  between 
them. 


A  BUILDER  OF  MEN  129 

"What  do  you  want  with  him?"  she  de- 
manded fiercely.  "He  knows  nothing  about 
it.  How  should  he?  What  is  it  to  do  with 
him?" 

The  men  looked  at  her  with  quick  interest. 
But  Layton  silenced  her  with  an  imperative 
gesture. 

"I  am  at  your  service,"  he  said  quietly. 
"What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"We  are  instructed  to  ask  you  to  be  kind 
enough  to  return  with  us  to  Scotland  Yard  to 
answer  a  few  questions  that  may  assist  the 
investigation  of  the  crime." 

"Certainly,"  Layton  returned,  without  hesi- 
tation. 

His  face  was  perfectly  calm.  He  showed 
no  fear  or  agitation. 

"We  have  a  taxi  waiting,"  the  man  said. 
He  spoke  to  Layton — but  he  was  looking  at  the 
girl. 

"I  will  come  with  you  at  once,"  Layton  re- 
plied. 

He  took  up  his  hat  and  stick.  The  girl 
leant  against  the  wall  panting,  a  hand  pressed 
to  her  heart. 


130         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Jim,"  she  gasped  faintly.     "Jim  .  .  ." 

He  turned,  with  the  first  sign  of  kindness 
he  had  yet  shown  to  her. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  he  said  gently.  "I 
shall  be  back  in  an  hour  or  so." 

She  clutched  him  desperately. 

"You  sha'n't  go!"  she  cried  wildly.  "You 
sha'n'tgo!" 

He  put  her  aside  firmly. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  go?  There  is  nothing  to 
be  afraid  of.  I  must  help  if  I  can." 

The  door  closed  behind  them.  The  girl 
moved  from  the  wall,  and  staggered  to  the 
table,  leaning  on  it  heavily.  She  was  ashen. 
Her  lips  were  gray.  She  heard  them  leave  the 
house — heard  the  car  start,  and  listened  until 
the  sound  of  it  died  away  in  the  length  of  the 
street.  Her  strength  failed.  She  sank  to  her 
knees.  A  moan  of  agony  escaped  her. 

"For  nothing  .  .  ."  she  whispered.  "Oh, 
God  .  .  .  for  nothing  .  .  ." 

She  heard  a  quiet  tap  at  the  door,  but  could 
not  answer.  She  saw  the  door  open  slowly. 
An  enormous  figure  stood  on  the  threshold. 


A  BUILDER  OF  MEN  131 

She  struggled  to  her  feet. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  murmured  fear- 
fully. "Have  you  come  .  .  .  for  me?" 

The  figure  squeezed  its  way  through  the 
narrow  doorway,  and  closed  the  door. 

"Mademoiselle,  you  are  a  friend  of  Mr. 
James  Layton,  who  was  taken,  a  few  minutes 
ago,  to  Scotland  Yard?" 

"Yes,"  she  cried,  "yes.  I  am  his  friend. 
What  is  it?" 

"Before  the  end  of  the  day,  Mr.  Layton  will 
be  detained  on  the  charge  of  murder." 

She  screamed. 

"He  didn't  do  it!     He  didn't  do  it !" 

"The  evidence  is  strong,"  said  the  stranger. 
"He  threatened  her.  He  was  in  the  garden 
when  the  crime  was  committed " 

She  raised  her  hand,  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow. 

"In  the  garden?"  she  shivered.  "He  was 
in  the  garden  .  .  .  then?" 

"He  will  require  much  assistance,"  con- 
tinued the  huge  unknown — "and  there  is  no 
time  to  lose.  Will  you  help  him  ?" 

"I  would  die  for  him,"  she  choked.  "What 
can  I  do?" 


132         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

The  stranger  re-opened  the  door. 
"Come  with   me,   mademoiselle,"   he   said 
softly— "and  I  will  tell  you." 


CHAPTER  XVI 
A  TRIPLE  ALLIANCE 

HE  led  the  girl  out  of  the  house. 
At  the  corner  of  the  street  a  taxi 
was  waiting.  He  opened  the 
door. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  demanded  suspi- 
ciously. 

"To  the  Hotel  Savoy,  mademoiselle,"  he  an- 
swered. 

She  hung  back. 

"Why  should  I  go  with  you?"  she  asked 
defiiantly.  "I  have  never  seen  you  before.  I 
don't  know  who  you  are." 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  replied,  "your  friend  is 
in  great  danger.  He  will  not  be  able  to  help 
himself.  If  you  do  not  come  with  me,  you  will 
not  be  able  to  help  him.  And  I  assure  you  that 
he  needs  your  help." 

She  got  in  without  another  word.     He  placed 
himself  beside  her,  and  the  car  started. 
133 


134         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Who  are  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"My  name,"  he  told  her,  "is  Dupont — Vic- 
torien  Dupont.  I  arrived  in  London  from 
Paris  a  few  days  ago." 

"What  have  you  to  do  with  this?"  she  said 
doubtfully. 

"That,"  he  replied,  "I  cannot  at  the  moment 
explain  to  you.  I  am  concerned  in  this  case 
for  reasons  of  my  own,  which  must  remain 
my  own  for  the  present.  I  was  in  the  garden 
when  Christine  Manderson  was  killed." 

She  started,  staring  at  him. 

"You  were  in  the  garden  too?"  she  cried. 

"I  was,"  he  affirmed.  "And  I  know  that 
Monsieur  Lay  ton  did  not  kill  her." 

"He  didn't!"  she  declared.  "He  couldn't 
kill  anything.  He  spends  his  time  giving  life 
— not  taking  it." 

"The  police  will  be  satisfied  that  he  did,  and 
they  will  have  a  strong  case.  Unless  we  can 
help  him  by  discovering  the  truth  in  time,  he 
will  not  be  able  to  clear  himself.  Are  you  pre- 
prepared  to  work  for  him?" 

"I  told  you,"  she  repeated  passionately,  "I 
would  die  for  him." 


A  TRIPLE  ALLIANCE  135 

"It  is  well/'  he  said.  "There  will  be  three 
people  on  his  side.  You — my  friend,  Mr. 
Tranter,  who  was  also  in  the  garden — and 
myself.  Together  we  will  save  him.  There 
will  be  separate  tasks  for  us  all.  Mr.  Tranter 
will  be  waiting  at  the  hotel  when  we  arrive, 
and  we  will  settle  our  plan  of  campaign.  Un- 
til then,  mademoiselle,  let  us  not  refer  to  the 
subject  again.  Do  me  the  favor  thoroughly 
to  compose  yourself.  In  these  matters  cool- 
ness is  of  the  utmost  importance." 

He  compressed  himself  further  into  his 
corner,  and  closed  his  eyes.  The  girl  said  noth- 
ing more.  The  rapidity  of  the  whole  catastro- 
phe, and  the  sudden  appearance  of  this  new 
adventure  bewildered  her.  The  huge  mysteri- 
ous stranger  almost  frightened  her.  Though 
his  eyes  were  shut  and  he  made  neither  sound 
nor  movement,  she  felt  that  he  was  searching 
her,  that  he  was  straining  all  his  mental  forces 
to  steal  the  thoughts  that  were  throbbing 
through  her  mind.  As  they  drew  near  to  their 
destination,  she  fiercely  exerted  the  self-con- 
trol that  was  one  of  her  least  developed  vir- 
tues, and  by  the  time  they  reached  the  Savoy, 


136         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

and  Monsieur  Dupont  opened  his  eyes,  she  was 
steady  and  watchful. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont 
softly,  "you  will  be  of  the  greatest  assistance. 
Already  you  know  the  value  of  silence." 

In  his  private  sitting-room  they  found  Tran- 
ter awaiting  them. 

"My  friend,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  "this 
lady  will  work  with  us.  She  is  much  attached 
to  James  Layton,  and  her  assistance  will  be 
most  valuable."  He  turned  to  her.  "Made- 
moiselle, I  have  not  the  honor  .  .  ." 

"My  name's  Jenny  West,"  she  said,  compre- 
hending the  request. 

"Where  is  Layton?"  Tranter  asked,  as  Mon- 
sieur Dupont  placed  a  chair  for  the  girl,  and 
sat  down  himself. 

"By  this  time,"  Monsieur  Dupont  replied, 
"he  will  have  arrived  at  Scotland  Yard.  Our 
friend  Inspector  Fay  will  question  him,  and 
he  will  certainly  be  detained.  As  I  have  just 
explained  to  mademoiselle,  he  is  in  great 
danger.  Unless  we  succeed  in  our  object,  his 
position  is  without  hope." 


A  TRIPLE  ALLIANCE  137 

Tears  welled  up  in  the  girl's  eyes,  but  she 
checked  them  with  an  effort. 

"I  wish,"  Monsieur  Dupont  continued,  with 
careful  emphasis,  "that  my  own  position  also 
should  be  clearly  understood,  in  so  far  as  I  am 
at  liberty  to  explain  it.  I  cannot  yet  tell  you 
how  I  come  to  be  interested  in  this  affair. 
Soon  I  may  do  so — but  until  then  you  must  be 
content  to  take  me  on  trust,  and  to  accept  my 
assurance  that  I  am  fully  qualified  to  direct 
you.  Are  you  willing  to  follow  my  instruc- 
tions without  question — to  save  this  innocent 
man,  who  will  be  accused  of  a  horrible  crime 
which  he  did  not  commit  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  girl  cried.  "I  am  ready.  I 
will  do  anything." 

"And  I,"  said  Tranter. 

"The  directions  I  give  may  seem  to  be 
strange,"  Monsieur  Dupont  went  on  impres- 
sively— "but  they  must  be  followed.  The  er- 
rands on  which  I  send  you  may  seem  to  be  un- 
important and  even  foolish — but  they  must  be 
carried  out.  Do  not  look  for  explanations, 
until  I  make  them:  I  give  account  to  no  one. 


138         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

Those  who  work  with  me  work  much  in  the 
dark — but  they  reach  the  light.  There  must 
be  no  hesitation.  Is  that  understood?" 

Again  the  others  agreed. 

"Then,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont  confidently, 
"we  shall  succeed.  Layton  will  be  saved — 
but  it  will  be  a  hard  and  difficult  task.  The  first 
law  I  have  to  impose  on  you  is — silence.  Com- 
plete silence,  to  every  one  except  myself." 

He  turned  to  the  girl. 

"At  three  o'clock  this  afternoon,  mademoi- 
selle, unless  you  hear  from  me  to  the  contrary, 
you  will  go  to  Scotland  Yard,  where  Mr.  Lay- 
ton  will  be  detained.  That  I  shall  verify  by 
telephone.  You  will  see  him,  and  you  will  tell 
him  this :  You  will  say  that  I,  Dupont,  know 
how  and  why  Christine  Manderson  died — that 
I,  and  those  with  me,  will  not  allow  the  inno- 
cent to  suffer — and  that  he  shall  be  delivered 
from  this  charge.  And  say  to  him,  also,  any- 
thing from  yourself  that  you  may  wish  to  say." 

They  were  both  gazing  at  him  blankly. 

"You  know?"  the  girl  gasped.  "You  know 
who  killed  her?" 

The  great  Frenchman  seemed  to  develop  be- 


A  TRIPLE  ALLIANCE  139 

fore  their  eyes  into  a  figure  of  tremendous 
menace,  every  inch  of  him  alive  with  implac- 
able, relentless  purpose. 

"I  know,"  he  declared  slowly,  "just  what 
I  have  told  you — how  and  why  she  died.  Ask 
me  no  more.  Remember  our  conditions. 
There  must  be  no  questions  until  the  time 
comes." 

He  rose,  and  took  an  envelope  from  his 
pocket. 

"Certain  things  that  I  shall  ask  you  to  do, 
mademoiselle,  may  involve  expense.  In  this 
envelope  you  will  find  a  sufficient  sum.  Do 
not  hesitate  to  accept  it.  Ample  funds  are  at 
our  command.  When  you  return  from  Scot- 
land Yard,  report  to  me  here.  If  I  am  not  in, 
wait  for  me.  And,  above  all,  remember —  si- 
lence." 

He  opened  the  door,  and  bowed  her  out. 
Then  he  turned  to  Tranter  with  a  faint  smile. 

"Well,  my  friend?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"Do  you  really  mean,"  Tranter  exclaimed, 
"that  you  know  the  truth  of  the  crime?" 

Monsieur  Dupont  offered  him  a  cigar,  and 
lit  one  himself  with  great  composure. 


140         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"I  know  just  as  much  about  the  crime,  my 
friend,  as  I  have  said.  I  repeat — I  know  how 
and  why  that  unfortunate  woman  died.  Who, 
or  what,  caused  her  to  die  is  another  matter, 
which  we  are  setting  ourselves  to  solve." 

"You  are  certain  that  Layton  is  innocent?" 

"James  Layton  did  not  commit  the  crime," 
Monsieur  Dupont  returned  firmly.  "But  he 
will  be  hanged  for  it — if  we  are  not  in  time." 

"Well,"  said  Tranter,  "what  is  there  for  me 
to  do?" 

"For  you,"  replied  Monsieur  Dupont, 
"there  is  the  most  important  task  in  the  case, 
so  far.  And  the  most  dangerous.  Within 
twenty-four  hours  you  must  discover,  and  bring 
to  me  here,  the  secret  of  the  Crooked  House." 

"Good  Lord!"  Tranter  exclaimed,  taken 
aback,  "how  on  earth  am  I  to  do  that?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  Monsieur  Dupont  admit- 
ted. "Nor  have  I  any  helpful  suggestions  to 
make.  The  method  of  procedure  I  leave  to 
you." 

"Housebreaking  is  entirely  out  of  my  prov- 
ince," Tranter  objected.  "And  the  secret  of 


A  TRIPLE  ALLIANCE  141 

that  house,  if  there  is  one,  is  likely  to  be  very 
well  guarded." 

"Probably,"  agreed  Monsieur  Dupont. 
"But  the  fact  remains  that  before  the  end  of 
the  next  twenty-four  hours  I  must  have  that 
secret — and  you  are  the  person  who  must  bring 
it  to  me." 

Tranter  took  up  his  hat  and  stick,  without 
further  protest. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  stoutly.  "I  will  do  my 
best." 

Monsieur  Dupont  looked  at  his  watch. 

"It  is  one  o'clock,"  he  said,  opening  the  door. 
"At  one  o'clock  to-morrow  I  shall  be  waiting 
for  you  in  this  room." 


CHAPTER  XVII 
MR.  GLUCKSTEIN  IN  CONFIDENCE 

MRS.  ASTLEY-ROLFE  invariably 
received  her  creditors  in  pink 
deshabille. 

The  financier,  Mr.  Solomon 
Gluckstein,  original  and  senior  representative 
of  John  Brown  &  Co.,  Jermyn  Street,  was  par- 
ticularly fond  of  pink,  and  extremely  suscept- 
ible to  deshabille.  Whiskey-and-soda,  person- 
ally prepared  for  him  in  sufficient  strength  by 
his  charming  debtor,  increased  the  fondness 
and  the  susceptibility. 

"Ma  tear  lady,"  said  Mr.  Gluckstein,  with 
desperate  firmness,  "I  have  come  on  an  un- 
plethant  errand." 

Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe  pouted  petulantly. 
"Am  I  to  have  no  peace?"  she  complained, 
from  an  alluring  attitude  on  a  couch.     "Isn't 

it  enough  to  have  gone  through  the  last  two 
142 


GLUCKSTEIN  IN  CONFIDENCE     143 

days?     Look  at  me.     I  am  a  nervous  wreck." 

"Then  all  women  wouldth  with  to  be  nerv- 
outh  wrecks,"  said  Mr.  Gluckstein  gallantly. 

"I  believe  that  odious  detective  actually 
imagined  at  the  beginning  that  /  might  have 
murdered  the  poor  girl." 

"Nonthenth,"  the  financier  assured  her. 

"I  have  scarcely  had  any  sleep,"  she  went 
on  reproachfully.  "It  is  a  wonder  I  am  not 
thoroughly  ill.  And  now  you — from  whom  I 
should  have  expected  consideration — come 
here  with  a  face  like  a  rock,  and  announce  your 
intention  to  be  unpleasant.  If  I  didn't  know 
you  so  well,  I  might  have  believed  you." 

Mr.  Gluckstein  glanced  towards  the  door, 
and  drew  his  chair  closer  to  her. 

"Let  us  understand  each  other,"  he  said  de- 
liebately.  "At  the  present  time  you  owe  me 
a  large  thum  of  money." 

"Gospel  truth,"  she  admitted. 

"Very  much  more  than  you  could  pothibly 
pay,  if  I  came  down  on  you." 

She  uttered  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"At  last  you  realize  that!"  she  exclaimed 
thankfully. 


144         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Also,"  continued  Mr.  Gluckstein,  "you  owe 
money  to  various  other  people." 

"Your  veracity,"  she  confessed,  "is  beyond 
question." 

"Almosth  ath  much  ath  you  owe  to  me." 

"Quite  as  much,"  she  said  cheerfully. 

"And  you  owe  me,"  he  continued — "twelve 
thousand  poundth." 

"The  first  time  I  have  looked  the  evil  fully 
in  the  face,"  she  shuddered. 

His  small  eyes  regarded  her  intently. 

"The  last  half  of  that— I  lent  to  you  on  a 
certain  understanding." 

"Understanding?"  she  echoed  languidly. 

"Yeth." 

"What  did  you  understand?" 

"That  you  intended  to  become  engaged  to 
George  Copplestone,  who  would  pay  your 
debths  when  you  married  him." 

A  quick  change  swept  over  her.  She  be- 
came hard  and  calculating. 

"Well?"  she  returned. 

"You  have  not  become  engaged  to  him." 

"No." 

"Some  one  elth  became  engaged  to  him." 


GLUCKSTEIN  IN  CONFIDENCE     145 

"Yes,"  she  said  calmly. 

"That  doth  not  look,"  he  concluded,  "like 
fulfillment  of  the  understanding." 

"Doesn't  it?"  she  retorted. 

He  glanced  again  at  the  door,  and  came  still 
closer. 

"Lithen,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  have  been 
your  friendth.  I  have  done  for  you  what  I 
would  not  have  done  for  any  one  elth.  I  have 
treated  you  fairly,  and  I  have  never  prethed 
you." 

She  softened  immediately. 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,"  she  said 
gratefully. 

"You  muth  be  my  friendth  too.  I  muth  tell 
you  my  thecret.  Promith  me  faithfully  that 
you  will  keep  it." 

She  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"Certainly  I  will  keep  it,"  she  agreed. 

"Five  days  ago,"  Mr.  Gluckstein  informed 
her  painfully,  "my  partner  abthconded,  and  left 
me  almosth  a  ruined  man." 

Her  face  expressed  genuine  sympathy. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said  feelingly. 
"What  a  dreadful  blow  for  you." 


146         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"It  ith  unnethecessary  to  explain  bithness 
details  to  you,"  the  financier  proceeded.  "My 
working  capital  hath  gone,  and  the  fact  thimply 

is  that  I  cannot  carry  on — unleth "  he 

paused  to  give  his  words  additional  emphasis, 
"unleth  you  repay  me  my  twelve  thousand 
poundth  in  full  within  two  months." 

"Two  months?"  she  exclaimed  blankly. 

"Two  months,"  he  repeatedly  firmly.  "That 
ith  the  utmost  time  I  can  give  you.  Have  you 
any  other  means  of  raithing  the  money?" 

"Not  a  ghost  of  one,"  she  replied  frankly. 
"I  might  as  well  try  to  push  over  the  Marble 
Arch  as  raise  a  single  thousand." 

"Then,"  he  said  steadily,  "if  you  do  not 
marry  Copplestone  I  am  a  bankrupt — and  a 
bankrupt  I  will  not  be." 

"I  shall  marry  him,"  she  said.  "I  told  you 
I  should — and  I  shall.  You  will  have  your 
money." 

"I  believed  you,"  he  returned.  "But  an- 
other woman  beat  you." 

She  looked  away  from  him. 

"Did  she?"  she  replied  evenly: 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 


GLUCKSTEIN  IN  CONFIDENCE     147 

"When  Copplestone  announthed  his  engage- 
ment to  Mith  Manderthon,"  the  financier  went 
on,  "I  stood  ruined.  I  admit  it.  I  stood 
ruined  by  your  defeat.  That  ith  the  thecret 
that  you  muth  keep.  I  was  sure  that  you  had 
no  other  means  of  paying  me  back.  Nothing 
could  save  me  but  a  miraculouth  removal  of  the 
obstacle." 

"The  obstacle  was  removed,"  she  said,  in  the 
same  even  tone. 

He  shuddered. 

"It  wath.  The  obstacle  that  stood  between 
you  and  Copplesthone,  and  me  and  ruination, 
wath  removed.  It  was  a  ghastly  thing,  and 
we  are  very  thorry.  But  let  uth  be  candid. 
It  wath  to  our  advantage." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed  slowly — "it  was  to  our 
advantage." 

"There  must  not  be  another  obstacle,"  he 
said. 

"There  will  not  be  another,"  she  replied. 
"George  Copplestone  will  marry  me — and  you 
shall  have  your  twelve  thousand  pounds,  as  I 
promised.  You  need  not  be  anxious." 

He  looked  round  the  luxurious  room,  and 


148         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

sighed  deeply.  It  surprised  her  that  she  had 
not  noticed  before  how  much  he  had  aged. 

"I  must  begin  again,"  he  said.  "I  am  get- 
ting old — but  I  will  rebuild  my  fortune.  I 
will  not  be  the  only  poor  Jew  in  London." 

"You  have  been  a  good  friend  to  me,"  she 
said  gently.  "I  am  very  sorry." 

He  paused  to  finish  his  drink,  but  his  crafty 
eyes  never  left  her  face.  She  did  not  meet 
them. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  in  a  slightly  lower  tone, 
replacing  his  empty  glass  on  the  table,  "what 
the  police  will  discover." 

"I  should  imagine  that  there  is  very  little 
to  be  discovered,"  she  returned.  "There  seems 
no  doubt  that  it  was  James  Layton,  the  Mad 
Millionaire,  as  he  is  called.  He  will  probably 
be  arrested  within  the  next  twenty- four  hours. 
It  appears  to  be  a  clear  case.  He  threatened 
her — in  front  of  us  all.  And  he  was  in  the 
garden." 

"It  ought  to  be  enough,"  he  admitted,  more 
easily.  "What  more  could  they  want?" 

"The  evidence  is  very  strong,"  she  said,  laz- 
ily settling  her  deshabille.  "Many  people  have 


GLUCKSTEIN  IN  CONFIDENCE     149 

been  hanged  on  less.  Apparently  the  police 
are  satisfied.  At  least,  they  have  not  arrested 
either  of  us/' 

The  financier  started  violently. 

"Either  of  uth?"  he  cried,  aghast.  "What 
do  you  mean,  either  of  uth?" 

Her  smile  was  enigmatical. 

"As  you  said  just  now — the  removal  of  the 
obstacle  was  to  the  advantage  of  both  of  us." 

"But  they  don't  know,"  he  shivered. 
"They  can't  know." 

"I  hope  not,"  she  said  shortly. 

Perspiration  began  to  stand  out  on  his  fore- 
head. He  had  lost  color  considerably. 

"You  promised  to  keep  my  thecret,"  he  ex- 
claimed nervously.  "Noth  a  word  to  any 
one." 

"I   shall   keep   my   promise,"    she   replied. 

"There  is  no  cause  for  alarm.  I  don't  think 
Inspector  Fay  will  trouble  us." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  They  turned 
as  the  butler  entered. 

"Inspector  Fay  would  like  to  see  you  for  a 
few  minutes,  madam." 

They  looked  at  each  other.     The  financier 


150         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

was  agitated.     The  woman  was  perfectly  calm. 

"Talk  of  the  devil!"  she  smiled. 

Mr.  Gluckstein  gripped  his  hat,  stick,  and 
gloves,  and  rose  hurriedly. 

"He  must  not  see  me  here,"  he  said  jerkily. 
"Let  me  out  another  way." 

"Go  through  there,"  she  said,  pointing  to 
a  door  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room,  "and 
when  he  has  come  in,  Parker  will  let  you  out. 
Bring  the  inspector  in,  Parker." 

The  financier  did  not  wait  to  shake  hands. 

"Remember,"  he  whispered  passing  her — 
"both  your  promises." 

"They  will  be  kept,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  WIT  OF  THE  PINK  LADY 

INSPECTOR  FAY  entered  the  room  at 
one  end  a  few  seconds  after  Mr.  Gluck- 
stein  left  it  at  the  other. 

Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe  greeted  him  in  a 
friendly  fashion.  She  showed  considerable 
strain — but,  otherwise,  was  looking  her  best. 
And  her  best  was  delightful. 

"Good  morning,  inspector,"  she  said  lan- 
guidly. 

"Good  morning,  madam."  He  glanced 
back  to  make  certain  that  the  door  was  closed. 
"I  trust  you  have  recovered  from  the  shock  of 
the  crime." 

"I  still  feel  it  very  much,"  she  replied,  shud- 
dering. "It  was  the  most  horrible  experience 
I  have  ever  had.  To  think  of  seeing  that  poor 
girl  alive  and  well  one  minute,  and  the  next — 
like  that.  It's  too  dreadful  to  think  of.'* 
151 


152         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"It  was  certainly  a  most  disgusting  crime," 
the  inspector  agreed. 

"I  suppose  it  was  James  Layton?" 

"I  am  afraid  I  cannot  make  any  statement 
at  present,"  he  replied.  "Our  investigations 
are  proceeding  as  quickly  as  possible.  I  hope 
we  shall  clear  it  up  in  a  few  days." 

"I  hope  you  will,"  she  declared  fervently. 
"Such  a  brutal  criminal  can  expect  no  mercy." 

"In  the  meantime,"  continued  the  inspec- 
tor, "I  should  be  much  obliged  if  you  would 
kindly  give  me  a  little  information." 

"Certainly,"  she  said  readily.     "Sit  down." 

He  sat  down,  facing  her.  She  made  a 
charming  picture.  But  Inspector  Fay  had 
been  taken  in  by  charming  women  several  times 
during  the  early  part  of  his  career,  and  at  this 
stage  of  it  was  as  impervious  as  an  oyster. 

"Please  understand,"  he  began,  "that  in  ask- 
ing these  questions  I  am  making  no  insinuations 
or  suggestions  of  any  kind.  It  is  necessary 
to  establish  certain  facts." 

"I  quite  understand,"  she  assured  him. 
"What  do  you  want  to  know  ?" 

"I  want  to  know  what  you  were  saying  to 


THE  WIT  OF  THE  PINK  LADY     153 

Mr.  Copplestone  in  the  garden,  before  Mr. 
Tranter  came  to  tell  him  that  Miss  Manderson 
had  gone  into  the  house." 

She  started. 

"I?"  she  exclaimed.  "I  was  not  with  Mr. 
Copplestone." 

He  remained  silent. 

"I  told  you,  I  was  not  with  any  one.  I  did 
not  feel  quite  myself,  and  strolled  about  alone." 

The  inspector's  face  was  quite  impassive. 

"You  wish  me  to  accept  that  answer?"  he 
asked  quietly. 

She  stiffened  haughtily. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  said  sharply. 

"I  mean  that  you  wish  that  answer  to  be 
accepted  as  the  truth  ?" 

"Of  course.  Are  you  suggesting  that  it  is 
not?" 

"I  am  suggesting  nothing,"  he  returned, 
with  unruffled  composure.  "But  I  must  tell 
you  that  if  I  am  to  accept  that  answer,  it  may 
have  serious  consequences." 

"Serious  consequences?"  she  echoed, 
startled. 

"Yes." 


154         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"For  whom?" 

"Possibly  for  Mr.  Copplestone  himself." 

Signs  of  uneasiness  began  to  appear,  in  spite 
of  her  wonderful  self-control. 

"For  Mr.  Copplestone  .  .  .   ?" 

"For  Mr.  Copplestone,"  the  inspector  af- 
firmed steadily. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said.  "Will  you 
kindly  explain  ?" 

"Certainly."  His  voice  dropped  slightly. 
"Mr.  Copplestone  lied  to  me." 

"Lied  to  you?" 

"Lied  to  me,"  he  repeated.  "In  accounting 
for  himself,  from  the  time  he  came  out  into 
the  garden  after  dinner  until  Mr.  Tranter 
found  him  to  deliver  Miss  Manderson's  mes- 
sage, he  lied  to  me  deliberately.  I  want  to 
know  why." 

"You  had  better  ask  him,"  she  retorted. 
"I  do  not  know." 

"Mr.  Bolsover,  the  theatrical  manager,  told 
me  that  he  found  James  Layton  lurking  by  the 
house,  and  called  to  Mr.  Copplestone  before 
following  him.  Mr.  Copplestone  stated  that 


THE  WIT  OF  THE  PINK  LADY     155 

the  reason  he  did  not  hear  that  call  was  that  he 
had  gone  into  the  house  to  refill  his  cigarette- 
case,  and  did  not  come  out  again  until  just  be- 
fore Mr.  Tranter  found  him  after  leaving  Miss 
Manderson.  That  statement  was  false." 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"He  did  not  go  into  the  house  to  refill  his 
cigarette-case.  He  had  had  no  opportunity 
to  smoke  afterwards,  and  when  I  questioned 
him  his  case  was  almost  empty.  He  may  have 

gone  in  for  another  reason or  he  may  not 

have  gone  in  at  all." 

"Is  it  not  very  trivial?"  she  said. 

"If  you  had  been  dealing  with  crimes  and 
criminals  as  long  as  I  have,"  the  inspector  re- 
turned, "you  would  know  that  nothing  is  trivial. 
At  present,  Mr.  Copplestone's  time  while  the 
crime  was  being  committed  is  unaccounted  for 
— and  he  is  detected  in  a  lie.  It  is  not  a  pleas- 
ant position  to  be  in." 

She  was  silent.  Her  hands  moved  nerv- 
ously. 

"What  is  the  use  of  telling  me  this?"  she 
asked. 


156         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"It  occurred  to  me,"  he  replied,  "that  you 
might  be  able  to  extricate  him  from  that  posi- 
tion." 

"Why?"  she  demanded  resentfully. 

He  shrugged  his  shouders. 

"Can  you  ?"  he  insisted,  watching  her  closely. 

For  a  moment  she  paused.  There  was 
malevolence  in  her  gaze. 

"I  do  not  know  what  he  was  doing,"  she  said 
obstinately. 

"Madam,"  said  the  inspector  impressively, 
"if  George  Copplestone  stood  in  the  dock  in 
front  of  you,  and  his  life  depended  on  the  truth 
of  your  answer — would  it  still  be  the  same  an- 
swer?" 

She  turned  on  him. 

"In  the  dock?     What  do  you  mean?" 

"Would  it  still  be  the  same  answer?"  he  re- 
peated sternly. 

"Do  you  suggest  that  he  may  have  commit- 
ted the  crime  ?"  she  exclaimed  contemptuously. 
"Its  absurd!" 

"I  told  you,"  he  said,  "I  suggest  nothing. 
My  case  must  be  complete.  I  want  to  know 
the  truth." 


THE  WIT  OF  THE  PINK  LADY     157 

Silence  followed.  She  plucked  angrily  at 
the  lace  edge  of  her  gown.  Inspector  Fay 
waited  imperturbably. 

"He  was  with  me,"  she  said,  at  last,  sul- 
lenly. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  inspector. 

There  was  another  pause. 

"Please  go  on,"  he  pressed  her. 

She  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  her  resent- 
ment at  his  insistence.  But  the  inspector's  at- 
titude was  compelling. 

"We  had  a  private  conversation,"  she  said 
viciously.  "What  passed  between  us  con- 
cerned only  ourselves." 

"I  have  no  wish  to  pry  into  that,"  he  told 
her.  "But  I  should  like  to  know  why  both 
you  and  Mr.  Copplestone  preferred  to  tell  me  a 
falsehood  rather  than  admit  that  you  were 
talking  together  in  the  garden." 

"We  had  our  reasons,"  she  snapped,  "for 
not  wishing  it  to  be  known  that  we  had  been 
together.  We  had  no  time  to  speak  privately 
after  the  crime  was  discovered,  and  it  evi- 
dently seemed  best  to  both  of  us,  rather  than 
risk  conflicting  statements,  not  to  admit  that 


158         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

we  had  spoken  to  each  other  at  all.  I  hope 
you  have  nothing  more  to  ask  me." 

The  inspector  rose. 

"I  have  nothing  more  to  ask  you,  madam," 
he  said  politely.  "I  trust  it  will  not  be  neces- 
sary for  me  to  trouble  you  again  in  this  case. 
But  if  it  should  be — you  will  find  that  in  such 
serious  matters  it  is  always  better  to  speak  the 
truth.  Good  morning." 

He  walked  quickly  out  of  the  room,  leaving 
a  lady  in  pink  deshabille  quivering  with  an 
emotion  that  was  not  anger,  but  a  new  triumph. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
DETAINED  ON  SUSPICION 

INSPECTOR  FAY  left  the  house  of  the 
lady  in  pink  with  a  satisfied  expression  on 
his  face.     At  the  corner  of  the  street  he 
hailed  a  taxi,  and  drove  to  Scotland  Yard. 
Under  the  watchful  eyes  of  his  escort,  James 
Layton   awaited   him.     The   millionaire   was 
perfectly  composed,  and  appeared  to  be  under 
no  apprehension  as  to  the  outcome  of  his  visit. 
He  accompanied  the  inspector  to  a   private 
room,  and  sat  down  in  a  comfortable  chair 
without  the  smallest  sign  of  alarm. 

"Mr.  James  Layton?"  the  inspector  began, 
seating  himself  at  a  table. 
"Yes." 

"Mr.  Layton,  I  am  Inspector  Fay — in  charge 
of  the  investigations  of  the  death  of  Miss 
Christine  Manderson,  at  Richmond,  on  Tues- 
day night.     I  want  you  to  be  good  enough  to 
159 


i6o         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

answer  the  questions  I  have  to  ask  you  as 
clearly  as  possible." 

"Certainly,"  the  young  man  replied,  unhesi- 
tatingly. 

"To  begin  with — did  you  go  to  Richmond 
on  that  night?" 

"I  did." 

"Were  you  alone?" 

"I  was." 

"Did  you  call  at  Mr.  Copplestone's  house  at 
half-past  eight?" 

"Yes." 

"You  asked  to  see  Mr.  Cobblestone?" 

"Yes." 

"And  he  refused  to  see  you?" 

"He  did." 

"What  was  your  object  in  calling  on  him, 
in  that  manner,  at  such  an  inconvenient  time?" 

"I  had  just  ascertained  that  Miss  Mander- 
son  had,  or  was  about  to,  become  engaged  to 
marry  him.  My  object  was  to  tell  him  that 
he  was  not  a  fit  person  to  -be  her  husband,  and 
that  I  would  prevent  the  marriage  at  all  costs." 

"That  you  would  prevent  the  marriage?" 


DETAINED  ON  SUSPICION        161 

"Yes." 

"Because,  in  your  opinion,  he  was  unworthy 
of  her?" 

"Totally." 

"Had  you  any  right  to  take  upon  yourself 
the  control  of  Miss  Manderson's  choice  of  a 
husband?" 

"No  right,  perhaps — as  you  use  the  term." 

"As  any  one  would  use  it  ?" 

"To  my  mind,  yes." 

"To  your  mind  you  had  a  right  to  interfere 
in  that  engagement?" 

"Yes." 

"We  will  come  back  to  that  presently,"  the 
inspector  proceeded.  "What  did  you  do  when 
Mr.  Copplestone  refused  to  see  you?" 

"I  am  afraid  my  excitement  got  the  better 
of  me.  I  forced  my  way  past  the  servant,  and 
went  into  a  room  from  which  I  heard  voices, 
thinking  that  he  was  there  with  her." 

"You  knew,  then,  that  she  was  in  the  house 
at  the  time?" 

"Yes.  I  had  previously  telephoned  to  her 
hotel,  and  her  maid  had  told  me  that  she  was 


162         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

spending  the  evening  at  Copplestone's  house." 

"I  am  told  you  burst  into  the  room  uttering 
her  name." 

"Possibly." 

"But  you  found  only  some  guests  of  Mr. 
Copplestone's,  who  had  been  invited  to  din- 
ner?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  there  anything  strange  about  the 
room  ?" 

"It  was  decorated  in  an  extraordinary  man- 
ner." 

"I  think  you  made  some  remark  about  the 
decorations  ?" 

"Perhaps  I  did.  I  had  been  told  something 
of  Mr.  Copplestone's  eccentricities,  and  I  in- 
ferred that  the  engagment  was  an  accom- 
plished fact,  and  that  the  decorations  had  been 
put  up  in  celebration  of  it." 

"Do  you  remember  saying  anything  else  in 
the  room  ?" 

"I  said  that  rather  than  allow  Miss  Mander- 
son  to  be  engaged  to  George  Copplestone,  I 
would  tear  her  to  pieces  with  my  own  hands." 

"And  utterly  destroy  her?" 


DETAINED  ON  SUSPICION      163 

"Yes." 

"A  somewhat  violent  announcement,"  the 
inspector  observed. 

"I  am  afraid  it  was." 

"You  were  in  a  state  of  great  excitement, 
were  you  not?" 

"I  was  very  excited." 

"Almost  beside  yourself  ?" 

"I  cannot  say  that." 

"Were  you  responsible  for  your  words  and 
actions  at  the  time?" 

"Perfectly." 

"You  really  meant  what  you  said?" 

"I  meant  what  I  said,"  the  young  man  de- 
clared calmly. 

The  inspector  was  writing  rapidly. 

"You  were  then  requested  to  leave  the  house, 
and  I  think  you  left  quite  quietly  ?" 

"Yes." 

"What  did  you  do  then?" 

"I  climbed  over  the  wall  into  the  garden 
and  waited  for  an  opportunity  to  get  into  the 
house  again  and  speak  to  Copplestone  or  Miss 
Manderson." 

"You  were  behaving  rather  strangely,  were 


164         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

you  not,  Mr.  Layton?"  the  inspector  asked. 

"I  suppose  I  was." 

"If  you  had  heard  of  any  one  else  acting  in 
the  same  way,  you  would  have  thought  that 
he  could  hardly  have  been  in  a  normal  state  of 
mind?" 

"I  expect  I  should." 

"Yet  you  say  you  were  quite  yourself  ?" 

"I  was  quite  myself." 

"And  prepared  to  carry  out  your  threat?" 

"I  do  not  know  what  I  was  prepared  to  do. 
I  did  not  carry  it  out." 

"Later  on,  one  of  the  guests,  Mr.  Bolsover, 
found  you  creeping  round  the  house  towards 
an  open  window?" 

"Yes." 

"Before  he  ran  after  you,  do  you  remember 
hearing  him  call  to  Mr.  Copplestone  ?" 

"Yes,  he  did." 

"Was  there  any  answer?" 

"I  did  not  hear  one." 

"Mr.  Bolsover  then  followed  you  out  in 
the  direction  in  which  the  crime  was  com- 
mitted?" 

"I  do  not  know  where  the  crime  was  com- 


DETAINED  ON  SUSPICION      165 

mitted,"  Layton  replied  firmly.  "I  know 
nothing  of  the  crime." 

"Whoever  committed  it  managed  to  fulfill 
your  own  threat  fairly  fully." 

"Unfortunately,  yes." 

"Have  you  any  suggestion  to  make  as  to 
who  that  person  may  have  been  ?" 

"No." 

"What,  then,  did  you  do  when  Mr.  Bolsover 
ran  after  you?" 

"I  eluded  him  in  the  darkness,  climbed  over 
the  wall  again,  and  went  away." 

"Without  having  fulfilled  your  object?" 

"Yes." 

"Had  you  seen  anything  at  all  of  Miss  Man- 
derson,  or  Mr.  Copplestone  ?" 

"Nothing." 

There  was  a  pause.  James  Layton  waited 
quietly  while  the  inspector  finished  off  his 
notes.  His  face  was  a  trifle  paler  than  before, 
but  he  betrayed  no  sign  of  agitation. 

"Now,"  resumed  the  inspector,  "let  us  go 
back.  You  said  that  to  your  mind  you  had  a 
right  to  interfere  in  Miss  Manderson's  engage- 
ment?" 


166         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"I  did." 

"What  had  given  you  that  right?" 

"I  am  sorry,"  the  young  man  returned 
courteously — "but  I  decline  to  answer  that 
question." 

"When  and  where  did  you  first  meet  her?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you." 

"You  would  be  wiser  to  do  so." 

"Possibly." 

The  inspector's  face  darkened. 

"Mr.  Layton,"  he  said,  with  unmistakable 
emphasis,  "you  had  better  not  decline  to  an- 
swer any  question.  I  must  warn  you  that  your 
position  may  become  extremely  serious." 

"I  am  afraid,"  Layton  remarked  quietly, 
"that  you  have  already  made  up  your  mind 
that  I  am  guilty  of  the  crime." 

"That  is  as  it  may  be,"  replied  the  inspector. 
"I  am  advising  you  for  your  own  good.  To 
refuse  to  answer  questions  is  not  the  way  to 
allay  suspicion — but  to  increase  it." 

"I  realize  that,"  the  young  man  said.  "But 
I  still  refuse." 

Inspector  Fay  leant  back  in  his  chair  pa- 
tiently. 


DETAINED  ON  SUSPICION      167 

"Come,  Mr.  Layton,  you  will  only  put  us  to 
the  trouble  and  delay  of  proving  what  you 
might  as  well  tell  us  at  once.  And  it  will  do 
you  no  good." 

"I  should  'be  sorry  to  cause  you  any  addi- 
tional trouble,"  Layton  replied.  "But  I  have 
my  reasons/' 

"Let  me  help  you,"  continued  the  inspector. 
"I  have  had  inquiries  made  at  Miss  Mander- 
son's  hotel,  at  the  theater  at  which  she  was  to 
have  appeared,  of  her  maid,  and  various  other 
sources.  We  have  got  her  time  pretty  well 
accounted  for.  It  seems  that  you  have  not 
seen  her  at  all  since  she  arrived  in  this  country 
two  months  ago.  Is  that  so  ?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Anyway,  if  you  did  see  her  once  or  twice, 
there  were  certainly  no  opportunities  for  any- 
thing to  develop  between  you  to  account  for 
your  behavior,  or  justify  to  the  right  to  which 
you  considered  yourself  entitled.  You  must 
have  known  her  before." 

Layton  was  still  silent.  The  inspector  con- 
tinued easily. 

"I  am  wondering  whether  a  cable  across  the 


i68         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

Atlantic  would  bring  me  a  description  of  a 
certain  Michael  Cranbourne,  once  well  known 
in  the  United  States — particularly  in  Chicago 
— son  of  a  multi-millionaire." 

James  Layton  stiffened  in  his  chair.  He 
had  become  white  and  tense. 

"A  large  part  in  the  career  of  Michael  Cran- 
bourne was  played  by  an  adventuress  named 
Thea  Colville — said,  at  one  time,  to  have  been 
the  most  beautiful  woman  in  America — and 
known  later,  on  the  stage  in  New  York,  as 
Christine  Manderson." 

The  young  man  rose.  On  his  face  there  was 
a  wonderful  new  dignity  and  calm — a  relief,  as 
if  some  heavy  burden  had  dropped  from  him 
and  left  him  free. 

"Yes,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  am  Michael  Cran- 
bourne. I  might  have  admitted  it  at  first. 
What  do  you  want  now?" 

"The  whole  story,"  the  inspector  replied, 
motioning  him  back  to  his  chair. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  he  said. 

He  sat  down  again.  A  great  contentment 
seemed  to  rest  upon  him,  as  on  one  who  reaches 


DETAINED  ON  SUSPICION      169 

the  end  of  a  difficult  and  tiring  journey.  There 
was  a  long  pause. 

"I  first  met  Thea  Colville,"  he  began,  at 
last,  "in  Chicago,  when  I  was  twenty-five — 
seven  years  ago.  She  was  twenty.  It  would 
be  no  use  attempting  to  give  you  an  idea  of 
what  she  was  like.  You  never  saw  her  alive. 
No  description  could  convey  an  impression  of 
her  beauty — of  her  awful  fascination.  From 
the  moment  I  first  saw  her  there  was  no  other 
woman  in  my  world.  I  was  engaged  to  be 
married,  but  I  put  an  end  to  it.  People  said  I 
behaved  badly,  but  I  didn't  care.  I  couldn't 
look  at,  or  think  of,  another  woman  after  I 
had  seen  her.  She  enslaved  me.  I  was  hers, 
body  and  soul.  She  held  me  helpless.  I  was 
only  one  of  many,  but  I  was  a  favored  one — 
at  least,  I  thought  so." 

He  told  his  story  slowly,  in  a  low  voice,  with- 
out emotion.  He  was  staring  out  straight  in 
front  of  him,  forgetful  of  his  surroundings 
and  his  listener.  The  past  held  him. 

"My  family  warned  me,  and  threatened  me. 
I  knew  they  were  telling  me  the  truth — but  I 


170         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

wouldn't  listen.  I  hadn't  been  brought  up  to 
care  what  results  my  actions  brought  on  other 
people.  I  thought  only  of  myself — of  the  in- 
dulgence of  my  own  desires.  I  lived  a  useless, 
contemptible  life — entirely  without  scruples  or 
restraints.  There  was  scarcely  a  vice  that  I 
was  not  steeped  in — hardly  a  sin  that  I  had  not 
explored.  I  had  enough  money  to  gratify  all 
my  senses.  Nothing  was  beneath  me.  I 
plunged  into  every  depravity.  I  made  new 
depths  for  myself."  He  clenched  his  hands. 
"And  I  led  others  after  me." 

There  was  another  pause.  He  sat  rigid. 
The  inspector  waited  patiently. 

"I  need  not  trouble  you  with  unnecessary 
details,"  the  low  voice  went  on.  "It  is  enough 
that  for  her  sake  I  sacrificed  all  my  prospects — 
I  threw  away  my  heritage.  To  keep  her  for 
myself  I  squandered  every  cent  I  could  lay  my 
hands  on.  I  robbed  my  own  brother.  I 
forged  my  father's  name.  I  did  .  .  .  other 
things.  It  was  only  the  generosity  of  my 
family  that  kept  me  from  gaol.  And  Thea 
threw  me  over." 

"Apparently,"  the  inspector  remarked,  not 


DETAINED  ON  SUSPICION      171 

unsympathetically,  "her  standard  of  morality 
was  on  a  somewhat  similar  level." 

"She  is  dead,"  said  the  young  man  gently. 
"  fDe  mortuis  nil  nisi  bo  num.'  " 

The  inspector  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"As  you  please,"  he  said.     "Go  on." 

"She  refused  to  see  me — to  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  me.  She  cut  me  out  of  her 
life  with  one  stroke.  For  the  first  time  I  knew 
she  hadn't  cared.  That  broke  me.  I  was  very 
ill.  For  a  year  I  knew  no  one.  I  couldn't 
hear  or  speak.  They  fed  £ie  like  a  child. 
They  thought  I  was  mad" — his  eyes  began  to 
gleam  unnaturally,  his  words  quickened — "but 
in  reality  I  was  in  the  presence  of  God.  I  was 
in  the  image  I  had  brought  upon  my  soul — 
black,  hideous,  distorted,  reeking  with  the  filth 
of  my  sins.  I  saw  myself — in  all  the  degrada- 
tion I  had  brought  upon  the  Shape  of  God. 
I  saw  my  own  page  in  the  Book  of  Life.  All 
the  entries  were  on  the  debit  side.  The  credit 
side  was  bare.  I  waited  for  damnation — but 
there  is  no  damnation.  There  is  only  Building. 
I  went  out  from  the  presence  of  God — a 
Builder." 


172         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

His  face  was  transformed.  His  voice  rang 
with  triumph — with  the  pride  of  victory. 

"I  came  to  myself.  It  was  like  waking  from 
the  dead.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I  re- 
covered even  a  little  of  my  strength.  Every 
hand  was  against  me — except  my  mother's. 
She  stood  by  me.  When  she  died,  a  year  later, 
I  inherited  the  whole  of  her  fortune.  The 
others  tried  to  take  it  away  from  me,  but  I 
fought  them.  I  had  new  uses  for  the  money. 
I  came  over  to  this  country,  and  began  my 
work.  For  four  years  I  have  given  myself  and 
all  I  have.  Go  and  see  for  yourself  what  I 
have  done.  Go  and  see  the  men,  women,  and 
children  who  would  die  for  me.  Go  and  hear 
them  bless  my  name.  Hear  of  the  lives  I  have 
built — the  light  I  have  brought.  I  have  filled 
up  my  credit  side.  I  have  a  balance  in  hand 
in  the  Book  of  Life." 

Inspector  Fay  remained  silent.  He  was  a 
severely  practical  man.  Before  his  mind  there 
was  only  the  outcome  of  the  interview.  The 
young  man  controlled  himself  with  an  effort. 
His  excitement  passed.  He  was  again  quiet 
and  composed. 


DETAINED  ON  SUSPICION      173 

"None  of  my  old  passions  or  inclinations 
remained — except  my  love  for  Thea.  I 
couldn't  crush  it.  I  fought  against  it  with  all 
my  strength.  I  struggled  to  stamp  it  out,  but 
it  was  unconquerable.  Her  face  was  always  in 
front  of  me,  day  and  night.  Her  voice  was 
always  in  my  ears.  I  couldn't  escape.  I  heard 
nothing  more  of  her  until  about  six  weeks  ago, 
when  I  saw  a  photograph  of  her  in  one  of  the 
papers  under  the  name  of  Christine  Mander- 
son,  with  a  statement  that  she  had  arrived  in 
London  to  play  at  the  Imperial  Theater.  The 
longing  to  see  her  again  was  too  strong  for 
me.  Day  after  day  I  waited  outside  the  stage- 
door  of  the  theater — until  she  came,  in  all  her 
fatal,  maddening  beauty.  We  stood  facing 
each  other  .  .  .  and  she  passed  me  by  without 
a  word. 

His  voice  broke.  He  pressed  his  thin  hands 
together. 

"The  madness  came  over  me  again.  The 
sight  of  her  fanned  all  the  old  flames.  I  was 
on  fire.  I  tried  to  follow  her,  but  they  kept  me 
out.  I  wrote  to  her  that  night,  telling  her  what 
I  had  done,  how  I  had  suffered,  and  begging, 


174         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

imploring  her  to  let  me  see  her.  The  answer 
was  a  curt  note,  in  the  third  person,  saying 
that  she  declined  to  receive  any  communica- 
tion from  me  whatsoever." 

Again  he  paused.  The  inspector  made  no 
comment. 

"I  found  out  where  she  was  staying,  what 
her  plans  were,  and  who  were  her  friends.  I 
discovered  that  she  had  come  under  the  influ- 
ence of  George  Copplestone,  who  is  little  better 
than  I  was  once.  The  thought  that  she  was  to 
be  the  sport  of  his  depravity  drove  me  to 
frenzy.  I  neglected  my  work.  I  could  do 
nothing.  Then  I  heard  that  they  were  on  the 
point  of  becoming  engaged.  The  rest  you 
know.  I  followed  her  to  Copplestone's  house. 
She  had  evidently  warned  him  against  me. 
I  forced  my  way  into  the  room,  calling  her  by 
the  name  of  Christine " 

"Why?"  the  inspector  asked. 

"Because  it  was  obvious  that  she  would  not 
wish  the  name  of  Thea  Colville  to  be  known  to 
London.  That  is  all  I  have  to  tell  you." 

The  inspector  rose. 

"Mr.  Cranburne,"  he  said  formally,  "after 


DETAINED  ON  SUSPICION      175 

hearing  your  story,  I  am  afraid  I  have  no 
option  but  to  detain  you  on  suspicion  of  having 
caused  the  death  of  Christine  Manderson, 
otherwise  Thea  Colville,  and  to  warn  you  that 
anything  you  say  may  be  used  in  evidence 
against  you." 

The  young  man  heard  him  without  a 
tremor. 

"I  did  not  kill  her,"  he  said  firmly.  "God's 
will  be  done." 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  KILLER 

MONSIEUR  DUPONT  was  one  of 
those  fortunate  individuals  who 
can  sleep  in  a  train. 
He    left    Paddington    at    one 
o'clock,  and  slept  for  an  hour,  a  sleep  of  child- 
like ease  and  innocence.     When  he  woke  the 
train  was  within  five  minutes  of  his  destination. 
He  alighted  at  a  small  country  station,  and  in- 
stituted inquiries  for  a  conveyance. 

Twenty  minutes  later,  an  unimpressionable 
horse,  attached  to  a  hybrid  vehicle,  was  jog- 
ging him  along  country  lanes  which  would  have 
delighted  a  man  with  less  serious  purposes. 
But  Monsieur  Dupont  was  too  much  occupied 
with  the  uglinesses  of  humanity  to  heed  the 
beauties  of  nature.  It  was  not  until  they  ar- 
rived at  the  outskirts  of  a  small  village  that 
he  began  to  look  about  him  with  interest. 

It  was  a  lovely  spot,  nestling  in  primeval 
176 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  KILLER     177 

innocence  under  the  shelter  of  protecting  hills. 
Monsieur  Dupont  uttered  a  heavy  sigh,  and 
spoke,  for  the  first  time  during  the  drive,  to 
the  stout,  sunburnt  lad  who  conducted  the 
equipage. 

"My  friend,"  he  said  sorrowfully,  "who 
could  imagine  that  such  a  corner  of  heaven 
could  have  been  the  cradle  of  one  of  the  most 
terrible  tragedies  of  the  world?  I  feel  like 
a  purveyor  of  sins,  creeping  into  the  preserves 
of  God." 

The  startled  stare  that  confronted  him  was 
not  helpful  to  further  conversation.  The  dis- 
concerted youth  vigorously  obtained  fresh  im- 
petus from  their  source  of  progress,  and  drew 
up  at  length,  with  obvious  relief,  before  a  low, 
creeper-covered  house,  lying  in  a  nest  of 
flowers. 

Monsieur  Dupont's  gentle  knock  produced  a 
rubicund  housekeeper,  of  about  eighty,  who 
blended  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  house,  the 
creeper,  and  the  flowers. 

"Doctor  Lessing,  if  you  please,  madame," 
said  Monsieur  Dupont. 

He  was  shown  into  a  small  library,  opening 


i;8         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

on  to  the  garden.  The  room  was  flooded  with 
sunshine.  There  were  flowers  everywhere. 

"Mon  Dieu"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  aloud, 
"that  I  should  come  to  ask  such  questions 
here." 

He  turned  as  the  door  opened,  and  bowed 
before  a  sturdy,  white-haired  old  man,  bronzed 
with  the  health  of  the  country. 

"Monsieur  Dupont?"  said  the  doctor. 
"What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Monsieur  Dupont  took  a  letter  from  his 
pocket,  and  unfolded  it. 

"Monsieur,  I  beg  you  to  read  this  letter.  It 
is  from  the  French  Embassy,  and  begs  assis- 
tance to  me  in  an  investigation  that  I  am  mak- 
ing." 

Doctor  Lessing  read  the  letter,  and  returned 
it. 

"I  shall  be  happy  to  assist  you  in  any  way  I 
can,"  he  said,  courteously.  "Please  sit  down." 

Monsieur  Dupont  sat  down  by  the  open  win- 
dows and  drank  in  the  fragrance  of  the  garden. 

"Doctor  Lessing,"  he  began,  "I  believe  it  is 
for  a  long  time  that  you  have  lived  in  this 
beautiful  place?" 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  KILLER     179 

"For  forty-five  years,"  the  old  doctor  smiled 
contentedly.  "But  I  am  by  no  means  one  of 
its  oldest  inhabitants.  Lives  are  long  in  the 
country.  To  what  period  do  you  wish  to 
refer?" 

"A  period,"  Monsieur  Dupont  replied, 
"nearly  forty  years  ago.  I  do  not  know 
exactly." 

"A  long  stretch,"  said  Doctor  Lessing  rue- 
fully. "But  my  memory  shall  do  its  best  for 
you.  That  is  all  I  can  promise." 

"I  am  engaged,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  "on 
an  extraordinary  quest.  I  do  not  think  that 
any  human  being  has  ever  been  engaged  on  a 
more  extraordinary  quest." 

"A  pleasant  one,  I  trust,"  said  the  doctor. 

"As  much  to  the  contrary  as  it  is  possible 
to  imagine." 

The  doctor  murmured  a  regret  and  waited 
for  his  huge  visitor  to  continue. 

"Do  you,"  Monsieur  Dupont  inquired,  "rec- 
ollect the  name  of  Winslowe?" 

Doctor  Lessing  started  slightly. 

"Winslowe?" 

"Oscar  Winslowe." 


180         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

A  keen  glance  flashed  from  the  doctor's  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  said  quickly,  "I  recollect  the 
name." 

"He  lived,  I  think  in  this  village  at  the  time 
I  have  said?" 

"Yes."     The  reply  was  a  trifle  curt. 

"Perhaps,"  Monsieur  Dupont  proceeded 
evenly,  "there  were  circumstances  in  connec- 
tion writh  that  name  which  helped  to  fix  it  in 
your  memory?" 

"There  were  certain  circumstances,"  the 
doctor  admitted,  "which  made  it  a  name  that  I 
am  unlikely  to  forget." 

"Unpleasant  circumstances?"  queried  Mon- 
sieur Dupont. 

"The  most  unpleasant  that  have  ever  oc- 
curred to  me  in  the  whole  length  of  my  prac- 
tice." 

"It  is  for  that  story,"  said  Monsieur  Du- 
pont, "that  I  have  come  to  ask.  May  I  beg 
all  the  details  that  you  can  recall  ?" 

"Perhaps  you  will  first  tell  me,"  the  doctor 
returned,  "for  what  purpose  you  require  this 
information?" 

"I  require  it,"  Monsieur  Dupont  replied  im- 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  KILLER     181 

pressively,  "to  save  the  life  of  an  innocent 
man,  who  is  wrongly  accused  of  the  crime 
of-  murder.  I  require  it  also  prove  three 
deaths,  and  possibly  to  prevent  another  three." 

Again  the  doctor  started.  His  hands 
gripped  the1  arms  of  his  chair. 

"Three  deaths?"  he  exclaimed  sharply. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Three  deaths,"  repeated  Monsieur  Dupont. 
"Of  three  very  beautiful  women." 

The  doctor  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"My  God!"  he  cried  hoarsely. 

"Will  you  tell  me  the  story  ?"  said  Monsieur 
Dupont. 

Doctor  Lessing  sat  down  again  in  his  chair. 
He  was  considerably  shaken.  He  leant  back 
and  closed  his  eyes,  remaining  silent  for  a  few 
moments. 

"I  think,"  he  began  at  last,  "that  I  can,  at 
all  events,  remember  the  chief  fatts  of  the  case. 
It  was  such  a  remarkable  and  distressing  tme 
that  it  stands  out  in  the  annals  of  such  a  peace- 
ful spot  as  this,  and  it  has  therefore  remained 
in  my  memory,  though  so  much  else  has  faded. 
But  you  must  make  allowances  for  the  flight 


182         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

of  time.  Look  out  of  the  window  to  the  left, 
and  you  will  see  a  large  red  house,  on  the  slope 
of  the  hill." 

"I  see  it,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  following 
the  direction. 

"That  was  Oscar  Winslowe's  house,  forty 
years  ago.  Winslowe  was  an  unprincipled  and 
dissolute  man.  He  was  only  about  twenty- 
five  or  six  at  that  time,  but  already  he  was 
sodden  with  drink,  drugs,  and  vice  of  every 
description.  He  was  the  worst  kind  of  black- 
guard. But  his  wife  was  the  exact  opposite 
to  him,  a  gentle,  delicate  girl.  She  was  not 
beautiful,  but  he-r  nature  more  than  compen- 
sated for  lack  of  beauty.  He  had  married 
her  for  her  money,  and  treated  her  abominably. 
I  became  friendly  with  her,  partly  because  of 
the  pity  I  felt  for  he-r  on  account  of  his  treat- 
ment, and  partly  because  I  sincerely  admired 
the  beauty  of  her  character.  In  consequence 
of  that  friendship,  I  undertook  to  watch  over 
her  entry  into  motherhood." 

"That  is  what  I  want,"  said  Monsieur  Du- 
pont. "Her  entry  into  motherhood." 

"The  more  I  saw  of  her,"  continued  the  doc- 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  KILLER     183 

tor,  "the  greater  grew  my  pity.  There  have 
been  wonderful  women  in  the  world  who  have 
made  history  by  their  patience  and  endurance 
— but  this  woman  was  one  of  those,  equally 
brave  and  equally  patient,  of  whom  history 
knows  nothing.  She  worshipped  her  husband, 
blindly,  dumbly — as  an  animal  will  still  love 
the  man  or  woman  who  ill-treats  it.  She  never 
uttered  a  word  of  complaint  or  blame.  Her 
greatest  hope  was  that  the  advent  of  the  child 
would  induce  from  him  something  of  the  con- 
sideration and  tenderness  that  he  had  never 
given  her.  She  believed  it  was  some  fault, 
some  shortcoming,  of  hers  that  had  kept  it 
from  her.  It  didn't  occur  to  her  that  it  might 
be  the  beauty  of  another  woman." 

"Ah !"  said  Monsieur  Dupont  eagerly. 

"She  discovered  that  about  three  months  be- 
fore the  child  was  born.  I  can't  remember 
how  the  discovery  came  about.  She  followed 
him  to  -London — and  found  him,  even  that 
short  time  before  the  birth  of  his  child,  lavish- 
ing on  a  beautiful  society  woman  all  that  should 
have  been  hers." 

In  spite  of  the  years  that  had  passed  the 


184         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

doctor's  voice  still  rose  in  anger.     He  paused, 
checking  himself. 

"Before  that  supreme  insult,  that  shatter- 
ing of  her  hopes,  the  poor  girl  lost  her  reason. 
In  the  state  of  her  health,  it  was  not  surprising. 
She,  who  would  never  have  harmed  a  fly,  who 
had  never  wished  ill  to  any  one  in  her  life, 
became  possessed  with  an  awful  fury  to  stamp 
out  the  beauty  that  had  robbed  her — to  destroy 
the  face  and  body  that  were  more  to  the  man 
she  loved  than  her  own.  The  other  woman, 
undeserving  of  consideration  as  she  was,  nar- 
rowly escaped  a  horrible  punishment.  The  un- 
fortunate girl  was  brought  back  here,  and  I 
was  sent  for  to  attend  her.  She  grew  worse 
hour  after  hour.  Her  mind  was  completely 
unhinged.  From  a  furious  hatred  of  the  beauty 
of  the  woman  who  had  wronged  her,  the  mania 
increased  into  a  furious  hatred  of  beauty  in  any 
shape  or  form,  and  a.  savage  lust  to  destroy  it. 
In  the  house  there  were  many  portraits  of  the 
beautiful  women- of  the  Winslowe  family.  She 
tore  the  pictures  to  shreds.  There  were 
statues  and  valuable  works  of  art.  She 
smashed  them  all  to  pulp.  Her  madness  was 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  KILLER     185 

the  most  terrible  thing  I  have  ever  seen.  She 
had  to  be  forcibly  restrained." 

Monsieur  Dupont  listened  intently.  There 
was  an  expression  of  triumph  on  Ms  face. 

"A  pitiful  story,"  he  said  softly. 

"She  partially  recovered  in  a  few  weeks," 
the  doctor  went  on,  "and  before  the  three 
months  were  up  her  reason,  if  not  actually 
sound  again,  was  at  least  restored.  But  she 
was  a  wreck  of  a  woman.  There  was  dark- 
ness all  round  her.  She  heard  nothing  more  of 
Winslowe.  He  never  came  back  to  the  house. 
The  madness  returned  when  she  gave  birth  to 
her  child,  and  she  died  in  an  asylum  a  fortnight 
afterwards." 

A  longer  pause  followed.  The  recitation  of 
his  memories  moved  the  good  old  doctor  as 
the  actual  experience  must  have  moved  the 
young  man  of  forty  years  before.  He  rose, 
and  walked  to  the  window,  sniffing  the  scent 
of  the  flowers  with  relief. 

"She  left  the  care  of  the  child  to  the  nurse 
who  was  devoted  to  her,  with  ample  funds  for 
its  future.  When  the  affairs  were  settled  up, 


186         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

the  nurse  took  the  child  away  with  her,  and  I 
have  not  seen  her  since." 

He  made  a  relieved  gesture. 

"That  is  the  whole  story,"  he  said. 

"The  nurse,"  inquired  Monsieur  Dupont, 
"what  was  her  name?" 

"Masters.     Miss  Elizabeth  Masters." 

"Is  she  still  alive?" 

"So  far  as  I  know  she  is,"  the  doctor  re- 
plied. "But  I  should  not  have  been  likely 
to  have  heard  of  her  death,  if  it  had  taken 
place." 

"Can  you  assist  me  to  discover  her  address?" 

"She  wrote  to  me  periodically,"  Doctor  Less- 
ing  returned.  "She  was  an  excellent  nurse, 
and  I  got  her  some  cases  in  town.  But  it  is  a 
long  time  since  I  last  heard  from  her.  There 
may  be  one  or  two  old  letters  of  hers  in  my 
desk.  If  you  will  excuse  me  for  a  moment,  I 
will  see  if  I  can  find  them  for  you." 

He  left  the  room.  Monsieur  Dupont  turned 
to  the  window,  and  .gazed  dreamily  out  into 
the  sunshine. 

"And  so,"  he  muttered — "in  this  corner  of 
paradise  the  Destroyer  was  born." 


CHAPTER  XXI 
A  HASTY  FLIGHT 

DOCTOR  LESSING  re-entered  the 
room  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 
"The  last  address  I  can  find,"  he 
said,    "is   35,    De   Vere   Terrace, 
Streatham.     That  is  sixteen  years  old,  but  as 
it  tells  me  that  she  had  only  just  moved  in, 
you  might  find  her  still  there." 

Monsieur  Dupont  made  a  note  of  the  ad- 
dress. 

"There  remains  only  one  question,"  he  said, 
replacing  his  pocket-book.  "Can  you  tell  me 
the  name  of  the  child?" 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.- 
"I'm  afraid  I  can't.     The  child  was  christ- 
ened in  the  church  here,  but  I  was  away  at 
the  time,  and  when  I  returned  Miss  Masters 
had  gone  to  London." 

"It  is  very  important,"  said  Monsieur  Du- 
187 


188         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

pont.  "Perhaps  I  can  discover  it  at  the 
church?" 

"You  will  not  find  any  one  to  tell  you  at 
this  time,"  the  doctor  replied.  "But,  if  you 
will  leave  me  your  address,  I  will  send  over 
to  the  parsonage  this  evening  and  ask  Mr. 
Wickham  to  turn  it  up  in  the  register,  and 
let  you  know." 

Monsieur  Dupont  delivered  himself  of  pro- 
fuse thanks.  Five  minutes  later  he  had  taken 
leave  of  the  old  doctor,  and  was  returning  to 
the  station  under  the  guidance  of  the  sunburnt 
youth,  who  was  obviously  relieved  when  the 
expedition  terminated. 

He  slept  peacefully  until  the  train  reached 
Paddington. 

It  was  five  o'clock  when  he  returned  to  the 
Savoy.  The  girl,  Jenny  West,  was  waiting  for 
him.  She  was  as  white  as  death. 

"They  have  charged  him,"  she  sobbed.  "He 
is  remanded  for  a  week." 

He  laid  a  hand  gently  on  her  shoulder. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,"  he  said.  4'He  will  be 
saved.  I  have  given  my  word — the  word  ol 
Dupont — that  he  will  be  saved." 


A  HASTY  FLIGHT  189 

He  sat  down  at  his  writing  table,  and  wrote 
rapidly  for  several  minutes.  He  covered  four 
or  five  sheets  of  paper,  and  placed  them  in  an 
envelope. 

"Here,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  rising,  "are 
your  instructions  for  to-morrow  morning.  Do 
not  read  them  until  you  are  alone.  A  car  will 
be  waiting  for  you  here  at  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  In  the  afternoon  you  will  be  at 
liberty  to  visit  Monsieur  Layton.  I  shall  ex- 
pect to  see  you  here  at  one  o'clock." 

He  bowed  her  out  of  the  room.  Half  an 
hour  later,  he  was  on  his  way  to  Streatham. 


A  grim  expression  settled  on  his  face  as  the 
journey  proceeded,  yet  it  was  not  altogether 
unmixed  with  pity.  He  was  a  man  of  ready 
sympathy.  The  doctor's  story  had  evidently 
moved  him  to  view  his  task  with  a  new  com- 
passion. 

As  his  car  turned  into  De  Vere  Terrace,  he 
became  alert,  and  scrutinized  the  houses 
closely.  They  were  small  semi-detached  villas. 
He  alighted  in  front  of  number  35,  passed  up 


190         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

the  carefully  kept  front  garden,  and  knocked 
at  the  door. 

There  was  no  response.  He  knocked  again, 
several  times,  but  the  silence  of  the  house  re- 
mained undisturbed.  He  left  the  door,  and 
glanced  in  at  the  front  windows,  but  the  room 
was  so  dark  that  he  could  discern  nothing. 
He  walked  round  to  the  back.  Through  the 
uncurtained  kitchen  windows  he  saw  a  fire 
in  the  range.  It  had  almost  burnt  itself  out. 
There  were  cooking  utensils  on  the  table. 
Some  pastry  was  rolled  out  on  a  board. 
Apparently  the  household  operations  had 
been  somewhat  rudely  interrupted,  and  very 
hastily  abandoned.  The  back  door  and  win- 
dows were  securely  fastened.  Returning  to 
the  front,  he  carefully  closed  the  gate,  and 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  adjoining  house. 

The  name  of  the  house  was  "Sans  Souci," 
and  the  door  was  opened  by  a  lady  in  rich 
purple,  with  a  string  of  pearls. 

Monsieur  Dupont  swept  off  his  hat. 

"Madame,  I  make  a  thousand  apologies! 
Can  you  tell  me  when  I  shall  find  Miss  Masters 
at  home. 


A  HASTY  FLIGHT  191 

His  extreme  bulk  and  the  fact  that  he  was 
not  an  Englishman  seemed  to  cause  the  lady 
considerable  amusement. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  she  said  engag- 
ingly. "I  think  she's  gone  away." 

"Away?"  Monsieur  Dupont  echoed. 

"She  left  in  a  great  hurry  two  hours  ago," 
the  lady  informed  him.  "In  a  motor." 

Monsieur  Dupont  appeared  somewhat  stag- 
gered. 

"Two  hours  ago  .  .  ."  he  muttered. 

"I  heard  a  noise  going  on  in  the  house," 
continued  the  lady,  "as  if  she  was  packing 
quickly.  She  went  off  with  a  couple  of  boxes, 
and  seemed  very  impatient." 

"It  is  most  unfortunate,"  said  Monsieur  Du- 
pont mildly.  "I  have  come  all  the  way  from 
the  Strand  to  see  her." 

The  lady  laughed  freely. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said  good-naturedly. 
"Won't  you  come  in  and  rest  a  bit  ?" 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "you  are  very  good,  but 
I  must  return  to  the  Strand.  Would  you  allow 
me  to  ask  you  some  questions,  without  finding 
me  impertinent  ?" 


192         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"What  are  they?"  she  asked. 

"Will  you  tell  me  if  any  particular  person 
was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  Miss  Masters  ?" 

The  lady  stiffened  slightly. 

"Are  you  a  friend  of  Miss  Masters?"  she 
inquired,  shortly. 

"I  am  not,"  Monsieur  Dupont  admitted 
frankly.  "I  have  never  seen  her.  It  is  a  few 
hours  ago  that  I  heard  her  name  for  the  first 
time." 

"I  really  cannot  answer  any  questions  to  a 
stranger,"  said  the  lady  stiffly.  "I  don't  know 
you." 

Monsieur  Dupont  bowed. 

"If  you  did,  madame,"  he  said,  "I  should 
be  the  proudest  of  men.  Do  me  the  favor  to 
read  this  letter." 

He  produced  the  letter  from  the  French 
Embassy,  and  handed  it  to  her.  She  read  it, 
and  was  duly  impressed. 

"Of  course  I'll  do  anything  for  the  French 
Embassy,"  she  said,  returning  the  letter  with 
dignity.  "Miss  Masters  wasn't  what  you 
might  call  a  friend  of  mine.  I  used  to  speak 
to  her  because  she  lived  in  the  next  house,  but 


A  HASTY  FLIGHT  193 

it  didn't  go  beyond  that.  She  kept  very  much 
to  herself.  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  at 
all  unkind,  but  very  few  ladies  in  our  set  knew 
her.  Of  course  it  wasn't  her  fault,  but  she 
was  not  exactly  classy.  And  when  one  lives 
in  a  neighborhood  like  this,  it's  class  that  tells." 

Monsieur  Dupont  bowed  again. 

"Obviously,  madame,"  he  said. 

"The  only  person  that  used  to  visit  her," 
continued  the  gratified  lady,  "was  a  man  who 
often  used  to  arrive  in  the  evening  and  stay  the 
night.  We  understood  she  was  an  old  nurse 
of  his,  or  something  of  the  kind,  and  that  he 
more  or  less  provided  for  her." 

"And  this  man,  madame — what  was  he 
like?" 

"He  was  rather  tall,"  she  said,  "and  had  a 
dark  moustache.  He  was  always  well  dressed, 
and  looked  quite  a  gentleman." 

"You  heard  his  name?" 

"No — we  never  heard  his  name.  I  did  tell 
my  house-parlor-maid  to  try  to  find  out  once, 
but  she  couldn't.  Miss  Masters  actually  ac- 
cused me  of  prying." 

"Mon  Dieu"  said  Monsieur  Dupont. 


194         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"We  had  a  bit  of  a  row,"  said  the  lady  can- 
didly. 

"Does  she  live  alone,  madame?" 

"Yes,  quite  alone.  She  does  everything  for 
herself." 

"My  last  question,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont, 
"may  seem  remarkable.  It  is  this.  Have 
strange  things  appeared  to  be  happening  in  the 
house  during  the  visits  of  the  tall  gentleman 
with  the  dark  moustache  ?" 

She  started,  looking  at  him  curiously. 

"Strange  things  ?"  she  repeated  slowly. 

"Perhaps — violent  things." 

"Well,  that's  queer,"  she  exclaimed.  "As 
a  matter  of  fact,  we  once  heard  the  most 
extraordinary  noises  going  on  when  he  was 
there.  My  husband  thought  of  sending  in  to 
ask  if  anything  was  the  matter." 

"What  kind  of  noises,  madame?" 

"Like  as  it  might  be  heavy  things  being 
thrown  about  and  smashed,"  said  the  lady 
elegantly. 

Monsieur  Dupont  swept  off  his  hat  again. 

"Thank  you,  madame,"  he  said — and  went 
back  to  his  car. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
TRANTER  ATTACKS  THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

IN  the  evening,   Tranter   set  off  to  the 
Crooked  House. 
It  was  dark  when  he  reached  it,  and  the 
roads  were  empty.     Through  the  open 
lodge  gates  he  slipped  into  the  garden  unseen. 
The  place  seemed  deserted.     The  front  of  the 
house  showed  not  a  glimmer  of  light.     The 
whole  ugly  shape  of  it  stood  out  gauntly  against 
the  sky  of  the  summer  night.     In  the  shadow 
of  the  trees,  he  stood  watching  it,  alert  to  detect 
a  sign  of  life.     But  no  such  sign  appeared. 
The  Crooked  House  was  as  dark  and  silent  as 
a  tomb. 

He  crept  nearer,  keeping  under  cover  of  the 
trees,  and  skirted  the  lawns  to  the  back  of  the 
house.  There,  also,  darkness  reigned.  No 
sound  disturbed  the  stillness.  Facing  him 
were  the  dark  shapes  of  the  trees  surrounding 
the  wing  of  the  house  which  extended  from 
195 


196         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

the  opposite  corner.  The  foliage  was  so  dense 
that  no  part  of  the  wing  itself  was  visible.  He 
moved  quickly  across  the  back  of  the  house, 
and  reached  the  trees.  As  he  passed  under 
them,  it  seemed  that  he  was  feeling  his  way 
among  monstrous  sentinels  of  a  dark  mystery. 

A  thick  hedge  loomed  up  in  front  of  him. 
It  appeared  to  surround  the  entire  wing.  He 
walked  round,  trying  to  find  a  place  thin 
enough  to  allow  him  to  push  his  way  through 
—-but  the  hedge  was  evidently  there  for  the 
express  purpose  of  defeating  such  an  intention. 
It  was  impossible  to  penetrate  it,  to  creep  under 
it,  or  to  climb  over  it.  At  the  extremity  of 
the  wing,  about  which  the  trees  were  thickest, 
he  saw  a  faint  light,  escaping  round  the  edge 
of  a  blind. 

He  stopped  beneath  it.  It  was  a  meager, 
unpleasant  light,  too  dim  to  be  of  any  greater 
use  in  the  room  than  to  afford  the  barest  relief 
from  complete  darkness.  The  window  was 
half  overgrown  with  ivy,  and  he  could  see  that 
it  was  filthily  dirty.  The  light  continually 
flickered,  and  once  or  twice  it  seemed  to  have 
died  out  altogether.  An  eerie  sensation  began 


TRANTER  ATTACKS  197 

to  possess  him.  He  felt  very  strongly  the  evil 
influence  of  the  house.  Curiosity  to  discover 
what  sinister  secret  it  really  harbored  increased 
and  nerved  him. 

Again  he  tried  to  force  a  way  through  the 
hedge,  but  everywhere  it  was  an  impassable 
barrier.  Slowly  and  noiselessly  he  worked  his 
way  round  the  wing,  only  to  find  it  completely 
enclosed  on  all  sides.  He  returned,  and  stood 
looking  up  at  the  window.  Either  the  light 
was  brighter,  or  the  gap  at  the  edge  of  the 
blind  had  widened.  He  thought  he  saw  a  faint 
shadow  pass  and  re-pass. 

It  was  not  until,  in  moving  to  one  side,  he 
struck  his  head  against  a  massive  bough  of 
one  of  the  great  trees  that  the  possibility  of 
utilizing  them  as  a  means  of  access  to  the  for- 
bidden enclosure  occurred  to  him.  He  exam- 
ined the  bough.  It  extended  well  over  the 
hedge,  and  would  form  a  perfectly  secure 
bridge.  By  creeping  a  few  feet  along  it,  he 
would  be  able  to  drop  down  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hedge.  Finding  the  main  trunk,  he 
tested  his  weight  on  a  smaller  bough,  and 
swung  himself  up  into  the  tree. 


198         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

A  few  minutes  later  he  stood  within  the  bar- 
rier. The  window  was  some  twelve  or  fifteen 
feet  above  him.  But  the  walls  were  thickly 
clad  with  ivy,  and  ivy  is  an  excellent  ladder. 
Carefully  he  began  to  climb. 

He  reached  the  window,  found  himself  a 
secure  footing,  and  peered  round  the  edge  of 
the  blind.  But  the  light  was  so  poor,  and  the 
panes  were  so  dirty,  on  both  sides,  that  had 
there  been  anything  to  see  he  could  have  been 
very  little  the  wiser.  As  it  was,  the  small  area 
of  the  room  into  which  he  could  dimly  peer 
seemed  to  be  carpetless  and  unfurnished. 
There  was  no  movement,  no  sound.  The  light 
itself  apparently  came  from  the  further  end 
of  the  room,  from  the  level  of  a  table.  He 
clung  on,  undecided  how  to  proceed.  It  ap- 
peared that  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  wait  and 
listen  for  some  indication  of  the  purpose  of  the 
dismal  illumination. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  ten-thirty. 
After  a  wait  of  what  seemed  at  least  half  an 
hor,  he  looked  again.  Ten  minutes  only  had 
passed.  No  discernible  movement  had  taken 
place  in  the  room.  Yet  he  felt  perfectly,  and 


TRANTER  ATTACKS  199 

very  unpleasantly,  certain  that  it  was  occupied 
— that  something  was  proceeding  within  it 
which,  had  the  blind  not  intervened,  would 
have  revealed  the  secret  of  the  house.  Of 
what  it  might  be  he  could  form  no  idea — but, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  was  experi- 
encing, in  his  mental  tenseness  and  the  sinister 
silence  of  the  surroundings,  that  sensation 
which  attests  a  proximity  to  evil.  He  was 
daunted.  Fear  was  a  condition  to  which  he 
was  a  stranger,  but  a  vivid  nervousness  was 
beginning  to  seize  upon  him.  A  sense  of  per- 
sonal danger,  an  element  which,  so  far,  he  had 
scarcely  considered,  was  attacking  him,  and 
gaining  ground.  The  perspiration  was  stand- 
ing out  on  his  face.  He  found  that  his  hands 
were  cold  and  wet.  The  pulses  of  his  body 
were  throbbing;  he  felt  his  strength  growing 
less.  Muttering  a  curse,  he  braced  himself 
with  a  strong  effort.  He  was  accustomed  to 
consider  his  nerves  impregnable.  Many  times 
in  his  life  he  had  known  himself  to  be  in  far 
greater  danger  than  he  could  attribute  to  the 
present  situation,  and  such  weakness  had  never 
assailed  him.  On  four  occasions  he  had 


200         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

been  aware  that  his  life  was  hanging  by  a 
thread,  and  had  gloried  in  his  own  coolness. 
And  now  .  .  .  without  a  doubt  the  Crooked 
House  was  evil. 

Still  he  waited.  Another  twenty  minutes 
slowly  passed. 

He  started.  His  hands  closed  tightly  on  the 
trunk  of  the  ivy  to  which  he  was  clinging. 
The  door  of  the  room  had  been  closed  with  a 
slam.  He  could  hear  heavy  footsteps  on  the 
uncarpeted  floor.  A  shadow  blotted  out  the 
light. 

A  moment  later,  a  voice — a  man's  voice, 
horribly  strained  and  unnatural — rose  in  a 
shout  of  fury. 

"Damn  you!"  it  screamed.  "Look  at  your 
work!  Look  at  it  again!  Open  your  rotten 
eyes  and  look!  Look!  Look!" 

Tranter  was  so  startled  that  he  almost  lost 
his  footing  on  the  ivy.  There  was  no  mistak- 
ing the  voice — it  was  the  scream  ot  madness. 
He  listened  for  an  answer,  but  there  was  no 
sound  in  response.  Then  the  same  voice 
laughed — a  laugh  of  awful  bitterness. 

"Are  you  satisfied?     The  thing  is  creeping 


TRANTER  ATTACKS  201 

on.  I  am  getting  nearer  to  you  hour  by  hour. 
I  am  more  like  you  to-night.  One  more  grain 
went  yesterday — another  to-day.  Another 
will  go  to-morrow  .  .  ."  Again  the  voice  rose 
to  a  shriek  of  rage  and  hatred.  "Oh,  God! 
There  is  no  hope!  No  hope!  Only  on — and 
on— to  that !" 

The  words  trailed  off  into  a  sob  of  agony. 
Still  Tranter  could  hear  no  reply. 

Silence  followed.  The  shadow  again  blotted 
out  the  light ;  then  sprang  aside,  and  the  voice 
burst  out  into  a  fresh  paroxysm  of  madness, 
yelling  a  stream  of  curses  at  the  object  of  its 
fury.  The  madman's  frenzy  was  utterly  re- 
volting to  listen  to,  but  Tranter  searched  it 
closely  for  some  clue  to  the  identity  of  the 
person,  or  thing,  to  whom  it  was  addressed. 
The  voice  rose  again  to.a  shriek ;  then  subsided 
as  before  into  a  feeble  wail  of  misery. 

"Oh  God!"  it  moaned — "is  there  no  way 
.  .  .  no  way?  No  road  but  that  road?  No 
end  but  that  end?  Oh  God,  have  mercy  .  .  . 
have  mercy  .  .  ." 

It  was  a  cry  of  unspeakable  anguish — the 
prayer  of  a  soul  in  torment.  It  seemed  to 


202         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

Tranter  that  the  speaker  had  thrown  himself 
down,  and  was  beating  the  floor  with  his  hands. 

There  was  silence  again.  Then,  for  the  first 
time,  Tranter  became  aware  of  another  pres- 
ence in  the  room.  Though  he  could  neither 
see  nor  hear  anything,  he  was  conscious  of  a 
new,  indefinable  movement.  For  a  moment 
horror  almost  overcame  him.  He  trembled. 
His  nerves  failed.  The  support  of  the  ivy 
seemed  to  be  giving  way  under  him.  He 
clutched  at  the  framework  of  the  window  itself. 

The  shadow  of  a  figure  leapt  up  from  the 
floor  and  bounded  to  the  window.  The  blind 
was  wrenched  aside,  the  window  thrown  open, 
and  before  Tranter  had  time  to  recover  himself 
or  attempt  to  escape,  the  livid,  distorted  face 
of  George  Copplestone  was  almost  touching 
his  own. 

A  hand  closed  on  his  throat  in  a  murderous 
grip,  another  seized  his  wrist.  In  spite  of  his 
frantic  struggles,  he  was  dragged  with  super- 
human strength  through  the  window  into  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
A  DUEL 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day, 
an  hour  after  the  departure  of  In- 
spector Fay,  Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe  had 
sped   herself   to   Richmond,    in   a 
luxurious  motor  car,  which  was  her's  through 
the  instrumentality  of  Mr.  Gluckstein. 

She  had  found  the  house  of  George  Copple- 
stone  plunged  into  the  darkness  of  a  house  of 
mourning.  Every  blind  was  drawn.  Every 
particle  of  color  had  been  removed  or  draped. 
Black  reigned  supreme. 

Copplestone  was  not  pleased  to  see  her,  and 
made  no  attempt  to  assume  the  contrary.  He 
was  sitting  in  his  library,  moody  and  melan- 
choly, still  in  the  half-dazed  condition  into 
which  the  death  of  Christine  Manderson  had 
cast  him.  His  face  was  drawn,  haggard,  and 
sickly ;  his  eyes  were  bloodshot.  He  looked  up 
203 


204         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

at  her  with  a  forbidding  frown,  and  did  not 
move  from  his  chair. 

"Well?"  he  said  curtly. 

She  waved  a  hand  round  the  black  room. 

"Isn't  this  ...  a  trifle  theatrical?"  she 
asked  coolly. 

He  said  nothing.  She  sat  down  opposite  to 
him  uninvited.  She  was  perfectly  self-pos- 
sessed. 

"Inspector  Fay  was  kind  enough  to  call  on 
me  this  morning,"  she  remarked  pleasantly. 

Again  there  was  no  reply. 

"He  may  not  be  an  example  of  dagger-like 
intelligence,"  she  continued,  looking  at  him 
steadily — "but  he  is  just  a  little  too  sharp  to 
play  with." 

He  scowled  at  her. 

"Have  you  come  to  tell  me  that?"  he  asked 
rudely. 

"That — and  other  things,"  she  returned  un- 
ruffled. 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  them,"  he  retorted. 

"They  concern  you,"  she  said — "rather 
closely." 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  them,"  he  repeated. 


A  DUEL  205 

Her  lips  tightened. 

"It  is  scarcely  pleasant  to  be  such  an  obvi- 
ously unwelcome  visitor,"  she  said  evenly. 
"But  I  am  afraid  you  must  listen." 

"I  am  not  in  the  humor  to  talk  to  you," 
he  declared  roughly.  "I  don't  want  to  talk 
to  any  one.  I  want  to  be  left  alone.  Isn't 
it  enough  to  be  pestered  by  the  police  and  the 
papers,  and  all  the  damnable  business  for  the 
inquest?  Don't  you  see  that  my  house  is  in 
mourning?  Can't  you  let  me  be — even  for  a 
few  days?" 

"If  I  had  let  you  be,"  she  replied  easily, 
"Inspector  Fay  would  probably  be  here  in  my 
place — with  much  less  pleasant  intentions." 

His  glance  sharpened. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  growled. 

"You  were  not  wise,"  she  proceeded  tran- 
quilly, "to  treat  his  mental  capabilities  with 
quite  so  much  contempt.  They  are  possibly 
not  startlingly  brilliant,  and  he  is  perfectly  easy 
to  deceive.  But  even  an  official  detective  can 
see  through  a  clumsy  lie." 

Uneasiness  flashed  across  his  face.  She 
smiled  slightly. 


206         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"And  I  am  afraid,  my  friend,  that  you  are 
a  clumsy  liar." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about," 
he  snapped. 

"Come,"  she  said  quietly — "however  freely 
we  may  trifle  with  the  very  much  overrated 
Arm  of  the  Law,  at  least  let  us  be  honest  with 
each  other.  For  some  reason  or  other,  you  did 
not  tell  Inspector  Fay  the  truth." 

He  sat  upright  with  a  jerk,  flamed  with 
passion. 

"What  the  devil  is  it  to  do  with  you?"  he 
demanded  fiercely. 

"I  will  tell  you  in  a  moment,"  she  returned 
smoothly.  "When  you  accounted  for  your 
time  to  the  inspector,  you  told  him  that  you 
went  into  the  house  to  refill  your  cigarette 
case?" 

His  lethargy  had  disappeared.  He  leant 
forward,  staring  at  her,  his  hands  clutching 
the  arms  of  his  chair. 

"But,  unfortunately,  you  did  not  take  the 
elementary  precaution  of  having  a  full  case 
to  support  the  story.  In  nine  times  out  of  ten 


A  DUEL  207 

you  would  have  got  away  with  it.  This  was 
the  tenth." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  She  sat 
in  an  easy  attitude,  meeting  his  gaze  with  com- 
plete confidence.  No  trace  of  his  previous 
dullness  remained.  He  was  alert  and  taut. 

She  went  on,  with  delightful  smoothness. 

"With  an  unpardonable  lack  of  respect  for 
the  statement  of  a  gentleman,  it  occurred  to  the 
inspector  to  test  the  truth  of  that  account.  He 
did  not  want  to  smoke — but  he  asked  you  for  a 
cigarette.  It  was  a  gentle  trap.  There  were 
only  two  in  your  case." 

He  ground  out  an  oath  under  his  breath. 

"Obviously  you  had  not  gone  into  the  house 
to  refill  your  case.  Perhaps  you  went  in  for 
some  other  reason.  Perhaps  you  didn't  go  in 
at  all.  Anyway,  you  lied — and  when  people 
deliberately  lie  in  such  serious  cases  as  these,  it 
may  safely  be  imagined  that  they  have  some 
object  to  serve  in  doing  so.  The  inspector  was 
concerned  to  discover  what  your  object  was. 
So  he  came  to  me." 

"To  you  .  .  ."  he  muttered. 


208         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"I  told  you,"  she  returned,  "that  he  is  a  little 
too  sharp  to  play  with — clumsily.  He  sus- 
pected, from  what  had  been  told  him,  that  we 
might  have  had  a  stormy  scene  together,  and 
had  wished  to  keep  it  to  ourselves.  He  was 
quite  ready  to  believe  that  the  time  you  had 
failed  so  lamentably  to  account  for  had  really 
been  passed  with  me  in  'une  petite  scene  de 
jalousie.'  Fortunately,  I  had  given  him  a  true 
account  of  myself,  which  was  that  I  had  been 
alone.  So  after  the  necessary  hesitation,  and 
with  just  the  right  amount  of  annoyance,  I  was 
able  to  confess  that  we  had  both  lied,  and  that 
we  had  in  fact  been  together — and  he  went 
away  satisfied.  I  am  a  better  liar  than 
you." 

She  regarded  him  serenely.  His  expression 
was  ugly.  There  was  that  in  the  look  of  him 
that  might  have  daunted  any  woman,  but 
Phyllis  Astley-Rolfe  had  lived  chiefly  by  her 
wits  for  a  sufficient  time  to  be  quite  impervious 
where  another  would  have  been  silenced.  She 
was  as  completely  without  fear  as  she  was 
without  scruple.  Her  objects  were  objects  to 
be  gained,  by  the  most  convenient  and  speedy 


A  DUEL  209 

means,  and  quite  irrespective  of  considerations 
which  might  have  withheld  another  from  at- 
tempting to  fulfill  them.  In  furtherance  of  her 
present  object,  she  gave  Copplestone  look  for 
look. 

"I  return  good  for  evil,"  she  said.  "It 
is  not  a  habit  of  mine.  It  is  really  quite  con- 
trary to  my  usual  practice.  I  told  a  lie  to 
save  you  from  further  suspicion.  Considering 
the  circumstances,  you  must  admit  that  it  was 
exceedingly  generous  of  me.  And  I  expect 
you  to  be  grateful." 

Anything  but  an  expression  of  gratitude  con- 
fronted her.  He  remained  silent,  making  a 
strong  effort  to  mask  his  agitation.  But  his 
fingers  twitched  spasmodically,  and  there  was 
unmistakable  fear  in  his  eyes.  She  watched 
him  intently,  losing  no  point  of  the  effect  she 
had  created. 

"Well  .  .  .   ?"  she  said  steadily. 

There  was  no  answer.  She  bent  towards 
him. 

"I  said  you  were  with  me.  You  were  not 
with  me.  Where  were  you?" 

The  man  breathed  heavily,  his  baleful  gaze 


210         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

fixed  on  her.  She  met  it  with  unassailable 
composure. 

"Listen,"  she  said  slowly — "there  are  strange 
things  in  this  house.  I  know  it.  I've  known 
it  for  some  time.  Things  that  the  light  of  day 
never  shines  on.  What  are  they?" 

He  sprang  up,  and  stood  over  her  with 
clenched  hands,  his  face  torn  with  fury. 

"Damn  you !"  he  cried  hoarsely.  "What  is 
my  house,  or  what  happens  in  it,  to  you?" 

"Sit  down,"  she  said  firmly.  "You  are  not 
frightening  me.  To  threaten  a  woman  is 
merely  to  increase  her  tenacity,  and  mine  re- 
quires no  fortification.  Please  move  away 
from  me." 

He  obeyed,  muttering.  Her  calmness  dis- 
armed him. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  she  continued,  "that  I 
wanted  you  to  answer  my  question — anyway 
at  present.  Perhaps  your  secrets  might  be  too 
much,  even  for  my  conscience — and  that  is  say- 
ing a  great  deal." 

He  had  resumed  his  chair.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's pause. 

"You  were  foolish  to  mock  me,"  she  went  on. 


A  DUEL  211 

"Mockery  is  the  one  thing  a  woman  cannot 
accept,  or  forgive.  She  can  stand  any  amount 
of  ill-treatment  and  cruelty,  in  a  sufficient  cause. 
But  she  cannot  be  mocked  in  any  cause  what- 
ever. You  made  me  certain  promises,  which 
honor  bound  you  to  fulfil — and  then  flung  your 
renunciation  of  them  in  my  face,  before 
strangers  who  understood.  It  was  a  very 
mean  and  low-down  thing  to  do." 

A  faint,  sneering  smile  passed  over  his  face. 
Her  voice  hardened. 

"I  am  not  a  woman  to  defy — and  I  am  still 
less  a  woman  to  mock.  You  are  going  to  keep 
your  promises." 

"I'll  see  you  in  hell  first!"  he  retorted 
brutally. 

She  laughed.  "You  will  not  see  me  in  hell 
first,"  she  said  calmly.  "You  may  quite  pos- 
sibly see  me  in  hell  after — because  if  there  is 
a  hell  we  shall  certainly  meet  there.  But  in 
the  meantime — you  are  going  to  redeem  your 
word." 

He  made  a  slow  gesture  round  the  black 
room. 


212         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"You  come  to  me  now  .  .  .  within  a  few 
hours  .  .  ." 

"Why  not?"  she  returned  hardly. 

"Almost  before  her  body  is  cold  ..." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Christine  Manderson  was  an  incident,"  she 
said  indifferently.  "A  disagreeable  episode. 
She  merely  infatuated  you,  as  she  might  have 
infatuated  any  man.  She  has  passed."  • 

"Passed,"  he  muttered.     "Passed  ..." 

"I  do  not  profess  to  equal  her  in  appear- 
ance," she  admitted.  "But  I  am  not  repulsive. 
I  am  considered  to  be  extremely  good-looking, 
and  I  am  much  more  interesting  to  talk  to  than 
she  was.  Also,  I  am  well-bred.  Most  people 
would  find  the  balance  in  my  favor.  But,  even 
if  you  do  not,  the  difference  can  only  be  very 
small.  You  will  have  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

"Or  else?"  he  snarled. 

"Or  else,  if  you  prefer  it,  I  will  exchange 
your  promises  for  the  secrets  of  this  house — 
with  no  undertaking  to  keep  them." 

He  sat  biting  his  nails  in  the  suppression  of 
his  rage.  She  languidly  corrected  the  folds  of 
her  dress,  leant  back  in  a  charming  attitude, 


A  DUEL  213 

and  waited  with  unassailable  self-possession. 
The  silence  was  long. 

"How  much  do  you  want?"  he  demanded, 
at  last. 

"I  am  not  asking  you  for  money,"  she  replied 
coldly. 

"I   am  offering  it  unasked,"  he  retorted. 
"How  much  do  you  want?" 

"If  you  had  offered  to  buy  back  your  prom- 
ises a  week  ago,"  she  said,  "I  might  have  sold 
them  to  you.     I  do  not  know  that  I  particularly 
looked  forward  to  their  fulfilment.     But  you 
flaunted  another  woman  in  my  face." 
"Put  it  all  in  the  bill,"  he  said  coarsely. 
"Therefore  I  will  give  you  nothing  back. 
You  shall  have  only  your  bond." 

"Why  waste  your  breath  on  heroics  to  me  ?" 
he  sneered.     "You  would  sell  your  soul  for  i 
money.     You  have  often  boasted  it." 

"I  would  sell  my  soul  for  money  any  day," 
she  agreed  frankly — "but  not  my  pride.  I  am 
too  much  of  a  sinner  already  to  scruple  over  the 
disposal  of  my  soul.  But  it  would  not  profit 
me  to  gain  the  whole  world,  and  lose  my  pride." 
"Bosh!"  he  said  contemptuously.  "Pride 


2i4         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

pays  no  bills — and  you  owe  too  many  to  let  it 
deprive  you  of  the  pleasure  of  getting  rid  of 
a  few." 

"That  is  as  it  may  be,"  she  returned.  "I 
have  told  you  the  only  exchange  I  will  make." 

He  sprang  up  again.  This  time  his  anger 
was  scornful. 

"Fool!"  he  cried  harshly.  "Take  your 
warning!  Do  you  think  my. secrets — if  I  have 
any — are  for  you?  Or  that  I,  myself,  am  for 
you  ?  Why  do  you  try  to  force  yourself  on  to 
dangerous  ground?  There  are  things  in  the 
world  into  which  it  is  not  good  to  pry." 

"Plenty,"  she  said,  unmoved. 

"I  may  have  made  you  careless  promises," 
he  admitted.  "I  have  made  many  women 
promises.  It  is  a  bad  habit.  I  cannot  keep 
them.  I  cannot,  and  will  not,  marry  you,  or 
any  other  woman.  The  only  one  I  might  have 
married  ...  is  dead." 

"Again  you  throw  her  in  my  face,"  she 
murmured,  through  closed  teeth. 

"I  daresay  I  used  you  meanly,"  he  acknowl- 
edged. "I  did  use  you  meanly.  It  was  not 
the  game  to  do  what  I  did  that  night.  I  freely 


A  DUEL  215 

admit  it.  And  I  offer  you  reparation — the 
only  reparation  I  can  make.  It  would  be  the 
wisest  act  of  your  life  to  take  it." 

"You  have  heard  my  conditions,"  she  re- 
plied. "I  shall  not  change  them.  Unlike  most 
women,  I  have  'been  gifted  with  the  faculty  of 
being  able  to  make  up  my  mind.  The  time  for 
compromise  has  passed." 

"You  don't  care  for  me,"  he  persisted. 
"You  couldn't  care  for  any  man.  You're  not 
capable  of  it.  It's  not  in  you." 

"Whether  or  not  I  care  for  you  does  not  enter 
into  the  matter  at  all,"  she  rejoined  calmly. 
"My  capability  for  affection  has  no  bearing 
on  the  present  question." 

"You  were  relying  on  marrying  me  to  pay 
your  debts,"  he  declared.  "You  could  not  have 
built  a  more  forlorn  hope.  I  should  not  pay 
your  debts  if  I  did  marry  you.  I  will  give  you 
five  thousand  pounds  for  your  lie  this  morn- 
ing." 

She  was  very  angry.  The  insult  dashed  all 
the  color  from  her  face,  leaving  it  white  and 
set  in  lines  that  made  her  look  almost  old. 
Her  eyes  glittered  menacingly. 


216         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"You  dare,"  she  said  slowly,  "to  offer  me 
five  thousand  pounds?" 

"And  consider  yourself  damned  lucky!" 
he  retorted. 

He  took  out  his  case,  and  lit  a  cigarette 
with  a  show  of  indifference. 

"I  am  not  bound  to  offer  you  anything,"  he 
said  carelessly.  "That  small  point  seems  to 
have  escaped  you.  You  have  no  claim  on  me. 
I  consider  my  suggestion  an  exceedingly  gen- 
erous one.  You  can  take  it  or  leave  it.  It's 
all  you'll  get." 

She  rose. 

"You  insult  me  again,"  she  said,  in  meas- 
ured tones.  "You  are  not  wise." 

He  laughed  easily. 

"My  dear  Phyllis,"  he  said,  "you  are  ador- 
able in  a  rage — but  I  am  afraid  I  must  steel 
myself  against  your  gentle  exactions.  Let  me 
convince  you  that  I  am  really  treating  you  in 
a  highly  preferential  manner.  During  my 
career  three  women  have  attempted  to  black- 
mail me.  They  were  all  ugly — so  they  got 
nothing.  You  are  charming — so  you  get  five 
thousand  pounds.  That  is  the  most  I  have 


A  DUEL  217 

ever  paid  for  my  smaller  indiscretions.  And 
I  take  the  liberty  of  thinking  it  more  than  suf- 
ficient compensation  for  the  few  erroneous  im- 
pressions I  may  have  allowed  you  to  con- 
tract." 

"You  are  making  the  mistake,"  she  said, 
in  the  same  controlled  tones,  "of  imagining 
that  you  are  buying  back  your  promises  to  me, 
which  I  can  quite  understand  that  you  value 
lightly.  But  I  have  told  you  that  those  prom- 
ises are  not  for  sale.  You  have  wandered 
from  the  real  issue.  You  are  not  buying  the 
promises  of  your  heart — you  are  buying  the 
secrets  of  your  house.  Are  they  not  on  a  dif- 
ferent scale  of  values?" 

"You  know  nothing  of  my  house,"  he  re- 
turned. "You  do  not  know  whether  there  are 
secrets  in  it  or  not." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  confessed  candidly. 
"Possibly  there  are  not.  But  I  am  prepared 
to  take  a  sporting  chance  that  there  are.  And 
if  I  am  wrong — so  much  the  better  for  you." 

He  was  silent,  looking  at  her  thoughtfully, 
as  if  carefully  weighing  his  course  of  action. 

"You  were  under  the  suspicion  of  Scotland 


218         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

Yard,"  she  reminded  him,  "until  I  told  my 
lie.  You  will  be  under  it  again  if  I  admit  my 
lie.  Inspector  Fay  would  certainly  not  rest 
until  he  had  thoroughly  investigated  your  rea- 
sons for  giving  a  false  account  of  yourself. 
He  is  by  no  means  a  fool — and  I  very  much 
doubt  that  he  is  to  be  bought,  anyway  so  rea- 
sonably as  I  am." 

Copplestone's  face  wore  a  strange  expres- 
sion. There  was  now  no  animosity  in  it,  but 
rather  a  mild  resignation,  in  strange  contrast 
to  his  previous  anger. 

"So,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "you  would 
put  them  on  to  me  again  .  .  .  ?" 

"I  need  not  have  taken  them  off  you,"  she 
replied. 

"I  have  offered  you  five  thousand  pounds 
for  that,"  he  said  slowly. 

"I  have  refused  them." 

"Think  over  it  well,"  he  advised  her  im- 
pressively. 

"I  do  not  need  to,"  she  returned. 

For  a  moment  they  faced  each  other  steadily. 

"You  mean  that — finally?"  he  asked. 

"Finally,"  she  answered. 


A  DUEL  219 

He  moved  to  a  door  at  the  further  end  of 
the  room,  and  opened  it. 

"Come,"  he  said  quietly.  "You  have  gone 
too  far  to  draw  back.  You  shall  see  the  se- 
crets of  my  house.  Follow  me." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
THE  SECRET  OF  THE  HOUSE 

SHE  followed  him  out  of  the  black  room 
into  a  dark,  narrow  passage. 
Her  calmness  and  self-possessk>n 
remained  undisturbed.  Without  a 
tremor  she  accepted  this  unexpected  invitation 
to  the  secrets  of  the  Crooked  House — quite 
ignorant  of,  and  indifferent  to,  the  danger  to 
which  she  might  be  committing  herself.  That 
there  were  hidden  things  in  the  house  she  had 
for  a  long  time  been  convinced,  but  of  their 
nature  she  had  been  unable  to  form  even  a  con- 
jecture, in  spite  of  many  attempts  to  creep  into 
the  mystery.  Copplestone's  sudden  decision 
to  reveal  them  to  her  was  a  surprise,  and  an 
unpleasant  check  to  the  development  of  her 
schemes.  Either  he  placed  a  much  lower 
value  on  his  secrets  than  she  had  expected,  or 
her  participation  in  them  was  by  no  means  to 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  HOUSE    221 

be  dreaded  to  the  extent  that  she  had  relied 
upon.  In  any  case  her  position  was  consider- 
ably weakened,  and  the  success  of  her  plans 
was  no  longer  the  assured  thing  she  had  be- 
lieved it  to  be. 

In  silence  they  ascended  a  flight  of  stairs, 
and  reached  a  door  which  appeared  to  be  the 
entrance  into  a  separate  part  of  the  building. 
It  was  a  massive  oak  door,  fitted  with  double 
locks  of  remarkable  strength  for  a  private 
house.  Copplestone  held  it  open,  motioning 
her  to  pass  before  him,  and  relocked  it  on  the 
other  side.  She  was  still  without  any  nervous- 
ness, but  her  curiosity  increased  with  every 
step.  He  led  the  way  on,  and  she  followed 
him  unhesitatingly.  They  traversed  several 
corridors,  and  turned  many  corners.  Her 
sense  of  direction  told  her  that  they  had 
entered  an  extreme  wing  of  the  house,  hidden 
away  among  the  thickest  trees  of  the  garden, 
and  to  all  appearances  unused.  The  place 
was  damp,  dusty,  and  silent,  with  the  intense 
silence  of  emptiness.  Some  of  the  doors  were 
open,  showing  unfurnished,  neglected  rooms. 
The  papers  were  peeling  off  the  walls;  the 


222         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

fittings  were  covered  with  the  rust  and  dirt 
of  years;  the  soiled  blinds  half  covered  the 
closed,  uncleaned  windows.  The  atmosphere 
was  close  and  unhealthy. 

"What  a  parable  of  waste !"  she  said. 

He  did  not  reply.  They  came  to  a  square 
landing,  and  another  heavy  door  faced  them. 
Copplestone  stopped,  and  for  a  moment  stood 
looking  at  her  intently.  Shte  did  not  flinch. 
He  shrugged  bis  shoulders,  and  took  a  key 
from  his  pocket.  It  was  a  peculiar  key,  and 
was  attached  to  a  strong  chain.  He  fitted  it 
into  the  lock,  and  opened  the  door.  Then  he 
turned  to  her  again,  and  she  saw  a  change 
coming  over  his  face. 

"Go  in,"  he  said  curtly. 

She  hesitated,  for  the  first  time.  He 
withdrew  the  key,  and  returned  it  to  his 
pocket. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid,"  he  said. 

"I  will  follow  you,"  she  returned,  watching 
him  carefully. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  again,  and  went 
into  the  room.  She  entered  after  him. 

It  was  a  long,  low  room.     There  *was  a 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  HOUSE    223 

window  at  the  far  end,  but  it  was  so  dirty,  and 
the  curtains  in  front  of  it  were  so  thick  and 
discolored,  that  the  place  was  in  semi-darkness, 
and  the  air  overwhelmingly  heavy  and  un- 
wholesome. There  was  a  little  rough  furni- 
ture, a  strip  of  worn  carpet  on  the  floor,  and 
some  untasted  food  on  the  table — but  it  was  not 
any  of  those  dismal  objects  that  attached  the 
woman's  gaze.  It  was  rather  a  white,  pasty 
face  that  seemed  to  gleam  at  her  from  the 
darkest  corner  of  the  room — the  drawn  pallid 
face,  and  dull  lifeless  eyes,  of  a  white-haired 
man,  who  was  sitting  in  a  huddled,  contorted 
attitude  on  a  bare  wooden  chair. 

She  shrank  back  with  a  startled  exclama- 
tion, and  turned  to  Copplestone.  His  face  was 
convulsed  with  fury,  his  eyes  aflame  with 
hatred. 

"Well?"  he  said  harshly. 

She  drew  away  from  him  fearfully. 

"What  wickedness  is  this?"  she  shuddered. 

"None  of  mine,"  he  answered. 

The  vacant  eyes  rested  on  them  with  a  fixed 
stare,  completely  devoid  of  intelligence.  The 
huddled  figure  evinced  no  sign  of  life.  It  ap- 


224         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

peared  to  be  unconscious  of  their  presence. 
Coppleston  advanced  a  few  paces;  but  the 
woman  hung  back,  horrified. 

•"Is  that  ...  a  living  thing?"  she  whis- 
pered. 

He  laughed — an  unnatural,  metallic  laugh. 

"Yes,"  he  said — "it's  living  .  .  .  with  as 
much  life  as  its  sins  have  left  it,  and  its  'rotten 
'body  can  hold." 

He  turned  back  to  her. 

"Come  nearer,"  he  said.  "There  is  nothing 
to  be  afraid  of." 

But  the  glassy  stare  of  the  motionless  figure 
had  unnerved  her.  She  was  white,  and  shak- 
ing. 

"No,  no,"  she  muttered,  shrinking  further 
back. 

He  seized  her  arm. 

"I  warned  you,"  he  cried  roughly,  "but  you 
wouldn't  listen.  You  were  brave  enough  then 
— «when  you  thought  I  daren't  stand  up  to  you. 
You  shall  learn  your  lesson — you  who  talked 
so  glibly  of  my  secrets.  Come  closer." 

He  dragged  her  with  him  towards  the 
corner. 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  HOUSE    225 

"Look!"  he  commanded.  "Look  at  that 
thing  in  front  of  you — that  thing  crouching 
there  like  an  ape.  It  was  once  a  man.  It  was 
once  an  active,  intelligent,  healthy  human  be- 
ing— a  strong  handsome  member  of  a  strong 
handsome  family.  Everything  was  in  its 
favor.  There  were  no  obstacles  in  its  path. 
It  had  many  more  natural  gifts  than  the  aver- 
age man  is  endowed  with.  It  might  have 
ruled  an  empire.  It  might  have  loaded  its 
name  with  honor,  and  left  it  to  its  children.  It 
had  the  capability,  the  power,  and  the  oppor- 
tunity to  leave  the  world  a  better  place  than  it 
found  it.  Look  at  it  now." 

She  stood  silent,  her  head  turned  away.  He 
went  on,  with  increasing  rage. 

"Look  at  that  man  now!  He  has  brought 
himself  to  a  state  -of  gibbering  insanity  by  a 
life  of  indulgence  in  every  form  of  vice  and 
depravity  kftown  to  humanity.  He  know- 
ingly and  deliberately  drained  his  mental  and 
physical  resources  by  every  insult  to  nature 
that  depraved  men  and  women — the  lowest 
creatures  of  the  earth — have  devised  for  the 
satisfaction  of  their  diseased  senses.  He  was 


226         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

a  drunkard  and  drug-fiend  before  he  was 
twenty.  Every  effort  was  made  to  check  and 
reclaim  him,  but  he  defied  them  all.  He  was 
fully  warned.  He  knew  what  the  conse- 
quences would  be.  He  knew  that  nature  can- 
not be  violated  continuously  without  exacting 
her  penalty,  sooner  or  later.  But  he  plunged 
on.  Step  by  step  he  brought  himself  to  this. 
His  brain  and  his  body  are  decaying  from  the 
unnameable  excesses  he  has  committed  with 
both.  He  is  literally  rotting  in  front  of  us  at 
this  moment." 

She  put  her  hands  up  to  her  face. 

"Can  he  hear  you?"  she  gasped. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied  savagely.  "Per- 
haps he  can.  I  hope  *he  can.  I  hope  he  can 
hear  every  word.  It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time 
he  had  heard  the  story  of  his  shame.  And  it 
won't  be  the  last.  Curse  him !" 

She  tried  to  draw  him  back. 

"Come  away,"  she  cried.  "How  can  you 
stand  in  front  of  the  poor  creature,  and  talk 
like  that  before -his  face?" 

His  iron  grip  closed  'on  her  wrist,  and  held 
her  helpless. 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  HOUSE    227 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded,  with  dreadful 
bitterness.  "Why  should  he  be  spared  be- 
cause he  is  suffering  a  fraction  of  the  just  and 
natural  consequences  of  his  own  deliberate 
acts?  What  is  there  to  pity  in  that?  It  is  a 
merciful  retribution.  If  you  have  any  sym- 
pathy to  show — show  it  to  me." 

"To  you?"  she  echoed. 

"To  me,"  he  repeated. 

She  screamed,  and  tried  to  wrench  herself 
from  his  grasp.  The  horrible  head  had  begun 
to  move  slowly  from  side  to  side.  A  faint, 
ghastly  smile  appeared  round  the  twisted 
lips. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  cried.  "It's  too  dread- 
ful." 

He  dragged  her  round  again. 

"You  forced  yourself  into  my  secrets,"  he 
said  hardly.  "It  is  too  7ate  to  shrink  back 
now.  You  shall  know  them  to  the  full — and 
then  you  may  go." 

He  paused,  still  holding  her.  In  her  horror, 
and  under  the  sickly,  stifling  atmosphere  of  the 
room,  she  was  almost  fainting.  But  he  paid 
no  heed  to  her  condition.  His  eyes  were  fixed 


228         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

malignantly  on  the  grinning  object  of  his 
hatred. 

"That  man,"  he  said  slowly,  "was  free  from 
any  hereditary  weakness.  His  viciousness 
was  not  inherent.  He  came  of  a  good,  clean 
stock.  When  he  was  thirty — although  the  in- 
evitable results  of  his  violations  had  already 
seized  upon  him — he  committed  the  crime  of 
marrying.  It  was  the  foulest  sin  of  his  life. 
He  knew  what  the  result  would  be — what  it 
was  bound  by  every  natural  law  to  be.  He 
knew  that  the  sins  of  the  fathers  must  be  vis- 
ited on  the  children" — he  clenched  his  hands, 
and  she  winced  as  her  wrist  was  crushed  in 
his  grip — "and  knowing  that,  he  dared  to 
marry." 

His  voice  rose.  His  face  began  to  work 
with  passion. 

"He  married  a  good  woman — who  bore  all 
the  cruelties  he  heaped  upon  her  because  she 
loved  him.  Her  money  had  been  his  only  con- 
sideration— and  when  he  had  got  all  that  he 
treated  her  like  dirt.  But  there  are  limits  even 
to  what  a  woman  can  bear.  He  broke  her 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  HOUSE    229 

heart,  and  she  died  .  .  .  mad.  If  only  she 
had  died  a  little  sooner  .  .  ." 

She  steadied  herself  with  an  effort. 

"Who  is  he?"  she  asked.  "Why  is  he  here, 
in  your  house?" 

A  flood  of  fury  shook  him. 

"His  name  is  Oscar  Winslowe,"  he  said 
fiercely.  "He  is  my  father." 

She  uttered  a  sharp  cry,  and  wrenched  her 
hand  away  from  him. 

"Your  father?  That  creature  .  .  .  your 
father.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  he  cried  wildly — "he  is  my  father. 
1  am  George  Copplestone  Winslowe.  Do  you 
wonder  that  I  hate  him?  I  am  the  victim  of 
his  vices — the  heir  to  his  sins.  He  has  left 
•me  the  legacy  of  outraged  nature.  I  am  mad." 

She  recoiled  from  him,  panting.  He  was 
beside  himself.  His  face  was  distorted;  mad- 
ness glared  in  his  eyes.  Then,  suddenly,  the 
paroxysm  left  him.  He  turned  to  her  weakly, 
with  the  appeal  of  his  utter  despair. 

"Pity  me,"  he  said.  "Oh,  if  you  are  capable 
of  pitying  anything  in  this  dreadful  world. 


230         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

pity  me!  My  awful  inheritance  is  closing  in 
on  me.  Every  day  one  more  grain  of  reason 
leaves  me.  Like  him,  I  might  have  been  a 
leader  of  men.  Like  him,  I  have  power  and 
capability.  I  have  a  brain  that  could  have 
raised  me  to  the  greatest  heights.  I  have  a 
body  that  can  bear  any  strain.  But  I  am 
mad." 

His  agony  was  pitiful.  He  sobbed,  wring- 
ing his  hands. 

"I  can  feel  the  hideous  thing  growing  in 
me,  hour  by  hour — a  little  more — a  little  more. 
I  can  feel  its  clutch  tightening  on  me.  And 
I  can't  resist.  I  can't  escape.  The  little  men- 
tal balance  I  have  is  being  dragged  away  from 
me.  In  a  few  years — if  I  let  myself  live  to 
it — I  shall  be  a  babbling  maniac.  Nothing 
can  save  me.  I  knew  it  when  I  was  a  boy — be- 
fore that  thing  there  completely  lost  its  reason. 
I  knew  I  was  born  a  madman  for  my  father's 
sins.  It  crept  on  me  gradually — one  sign  after 
another — one  horrible  secret  impulse  after  an- 
other. The  slow,  sure  growth  of  madness." 
He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  "Oh,  God! 
Oh,  God!" 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  HOUSE    231 

In  the  silence  that  followed  the  figure  on 
the  chair  straightened  itself  with  a  jerk,  and 
gibbered  at  him,  twitching  spasmodically. 
The  woman  turned  away,  shaking. 

"I  live  in  hell,"  he  moaned — "in  all  the  tor- 
ment of  the  uttermost  hell.  I  fly  from  one 
thing  to  another  for  respite,  for  relief — but 
there  is  no  relief.  I  can  only  make  madness  of 
them  all.  Everything  twists  and  turns  in  my 
hands.  I  can  keep  nothing  straight."  Then 
another  gust  of  passion  seized  him.  He 
shouted,  beating  his  hands  together.  "What 
right,"  he  cried  furiously,  "have  men  and 
women  to  marry  and  bequeath  disease  and  mad- 
ness to  their  children  ?  What  right  have  they 
to  propagate  the  rottenness  of  their  minds  and 
bodies?  It's  worse  than  murder.  It's  the 
crudest,  the  most  wicked,  of  all  crimes.  What 
are  the  feelings  of  a  child  to  such  parents? 
Is  it  not  to  hate  them — as  I  hate  that  foul  thing 
there? — to  curse  them,  as  I  curse  him,  with 
every  breath?"  His  arms  dropped  limply  to 
his  sides.  "What  is  the  use  of  hating?"  he 
said  dully.  "It  can't  cure  me.  It  can't  cure 
me." 


232         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

He  looked  at  her  fixedly. 

"Well?"  he  asked  bitterly.  "You  know  the 
secrets  of  my  house.  Are  you  satisfied?'' 

She  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm,  and  turned  him 
gently  towards  the  door.  There  were  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

"Come  away,"  she  said  weakly.  "Let  us 
speak  somewhere  else." 

He  followed  her.  They  went  out,  without 
another  look  at  the  figure  behind  them,  and 
returned  in  silence  to  the  black  room. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
TRUER  COLORS 

A  GREAT  change  had  come  over  her. 
All  the  hardness  had  disappeared 
from  her  face.     It  was  transformed 
by  a  wonderful  new  pity — a  latent 
compassion,  stirred  for  the  first  time  by  this 
miserable  man's  utter  tragedy.     And  so  trans- 
formed she  was  very  lovely — with  a  loveliness 
that  all  the  arts  of  an  accomplished  society 
woman  had  never  bestowed  upon  her. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said  gently.  "I  would 
not  have  said  what  I  did  if  I  had  even  thought 
.  .  .of  that." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  a  world  of  agony  in 
his  tortured  eyes. 

"Well,"  he  asked— "do  you  still  want  to 
marry  me  .  .  .  now?" 

For  an  instant  the  old  hardness  flashed 
back. 

233 


234         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"You  would  have  married  her"  she  re- 
turned. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  wonder 
...  if  I  should." 

His  gaze  wandered  vacantly  round  the  room. 

"She  intoxicated  me,"  he  said.  "Her 
memory  intoxicates  me  still.  She  set  fire  to 
all  my  passions.  She  made  me  forget  the  'bar- 
rier. But  I  think  I  really  hated  her.  Per- 
haps ...  if  she  hadn't  died  in  the1  garden 
...  I  might  have  killed  her.  .  .  ." 

The  madness  was  leaving  him,  and  the 
weakness  of  reaction  taking  its  place.  He  put 
a  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  leant  heavily  on 
her.  His  face  was  mild  and  kind — the  face 
of  the  normal  man. 

"Phyllis,"  he  said  softly,  "I  mocked  you,  and 
treated  you  badly.  But  it  wasn't  really  I. 
Forgive  a  poor  madman  the  sins  of  his  mad- 
ness." 

She  made  no  attempt  to  check  her  tears. 
He  took  her  hand,  as  gently  as  a  child. 

"Don't  cry,"  he  begged.  "See— I  am  all 
right  now.  Sit  down,  and  let  us  talk:" 


TRUER  COLORS  235 

Still  leaning  on  her,  be  moved  to  a  couch, 
and  drew  her  down  beside  him. 

"First,"  he  said,  "I  will  tell  you  why  I  lied 
to  Inspector  Fay.  I  did  not  go  into  the  house 
to  fill  my  cigarette  case.  I  was  mad.  It  came 
on  me — as  it  often  does — when  I  see  sane  peo- 
ple about  me — a  rush  of  hatred  and  despair." 

He  spoke  dispassionately,  without  a  trace 
of  the  terrible  disorder  that  had  possessed  him 
a  few  minutes  before.  Only  the  gloom  re- 
mained— the  shadow  that  never  left  him. 

"You  can  understand,"  he  went  on,  "what 
my  life  has  been  since  this  cloud  first  settled 
on  me.  I  tried  to  fight  against  it — but  how 
could  I  fight  against  a  thing  that  I  knew  to  be 
there,  creeping  on  me  day  after  day — when 
I  knew  that  in  the  end  I  must  give  way? 
Every  hour  seemed  to  bring  some  fresh  proof 
of  the  madness  that  was  in  me — some  proof 
that  made  resistance  more  and  more  futile  and 
hopeless.  A  thousand  times  I  have  been 
tempted  to  kill  myself — but  always  there  was 
the  dim,  desperate  hope  that  some  miraculous 
twist  of  sanity  might  yet  deliver  me.  I  can't 


236         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

convey  to  you  a  tenth — a  hundredth — part  of 
the  agony  of  that  struggle.  There  were  times 
when  I  shrank  into  the  farthest  corner  of  my 
darkest  cellar,  and  prayed,  as  only  a  madman 
could  pray,  to  be  spared  from  the  unjust  curse. 
There  were  times  when  I  stood  out  on  the  roof 
of  my  house,  and  defied  the  God  I  had  prayed 
to  .  .  ." 

He  stared  straight  out  in  front  of  him,  a 
figure  of  unutterable  pathos — a  helpless  ac- 
cuser of  Eternal  Laws. 

"If  I  were  suffering  for  a  fault  of  my  own, 
I  would  bear  my  punishment  uncomplaining. 
But  I  am  innocent.  I  have  done  nothing  to 
deserve  this  torture.  And  there  is  always  the 
thought  of  what  I  might  have  been — of  what 
I  know  I  could  have  been.  That  is  the  crud- 
est torment  of  all.  I  have  to  see  sane  men 
and  women  wasting  every  minute  of  their  lives 
— without  the  slightest  appreciation  of  the 
value,  or  the  responsibilities,  of  reason — who 
might  as  well  be  mad,  for  all  the  use  they  are 
to  their  fellow-creatures.  And  I  ..."  He 
broke  off.  "That  is  enough  about  myself,"  he 
said.  "I  want  to  talk  about  you." 


TRUER  COLORS  237 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  as  if  noticing 
the  alteration  in  her  for  the  first  time. 

"How  changed  .you  .are,"  he  said.  "You 
have  never  looked  like  that  before.  You  have 
always  been  so  hard.  Why  have  you  never 
looked  like  that  before?" 

She  was  silent.  She  bent  her  head,  as  if 
ashamed  of  betraying  herself. 

"Was  all  that  hardness  .  .  .  only  a  cloak 
.  .  .  to  hide  yourself?" 

He  seized  her  hand  tightly. 

"You  fool !  You  fool !"  he  cried— "to  make 
yourself  hard  and  unfeeling  and  unnatural — 
to  try  to  stamp  all  the  heart  out  of  your  life — 
to  blaspheme  your  sex.  Don't  you  know  that 
a  hard  woman  is  the  most  terrible  thing  in  the 
world?  Don't  you  know  that  while  men  dare 
to  think  that  they  have  the  image  of  God,  it  is 
women  who  can  really  have  the  heart  of  God  ? 
And  to  think  that  all  the  time  you  have  dis- 
guised yourself,  you  have  been  capable  of  look- 
ing like  that." 

"I  have  been  up  against  the  world,"  she 
said.  "I  have  never  had  enough  money  to  be 
soft-hearted.  No  woman  with  feeling  can  get 


238         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

five  hundred  per  cent,   out  of  her  income." 

"What  does  it  matter,"  he  returned,  "if  she 
can  get  five  hundred  per  cent,  out  of  life?" 

He  still  held  her  hand,  his  eyes  fixed  long- 
ingly on  her  face. 

"If  only  I  were  not  mad,"  he  said,  with  all 
his  sadness — "now  I  know  that  you  are  really 
a  woman  .  .  ." 

"Let  me  go,"  she  said  brokenly,  withdraw- 
ing her  hand  from  his. 

"Not  yet,"  he  returned,  detaining  her. 
"There  is  something  more  I  want  to  do."  He 
paused.  "My  dear,"  he  said  softly,  "an  hour 
ago  I  would  not  have  married  you  even  if  I  had 
been  sane.  Now  I  want  to  marry  you  although 
I  am  mad.  But,  since  that  cannot  be,  there  is 
something  else."  He  released  her,  and  stood 
up.  "I  want  you  always  to  look  like  that,"  he 
said.  "I  want  you  to  forget  that  you  have  ever 
tried  to  disguise  yourself.  Iwant  to  make  it 
possible  for  you  to  go  through  the  rest  of  your 
life  with  your  heart  in  its  proper  place." 

He  took  his  check  book  from  his  pocket. 

"No,  no,"  she  said  quickly— "not  that." 

"Please,"  he  insisted. 


TRUER  COLORS  239 

"I  would  have  taken  it  before,"  she  said, 
forcing  back  her  tears.  "But  not  now." 

"You  must,"  he  declared.  "My  money  is 
no  use  to  me.  I  can't  do  anything  worth  do- 
ing with  it.  With  all  my  fantastic  extrava- 
gancies, I  only  spend  a  small  part  of  my  in- 
come. The  rest  has  been  accumulating  for 
years.  I  shall  never  use  it,  and  when  I  die 
it  will  pass  to  some  one  I  have  never  seen.  It 
is  doing  no  good — and  I  want  it  to  do  some 
good.  What  better  thing  could  I  do  with  it 
than  give  it  ...  to  the  woman  I  would  marry 
if  I  could?" 

She  sprang  up. 

"For  God's  sake,"  she  cried,  "don't  say  that! 
I  can't  bear  it !" 

He  laid  a  hand  again  on  her  shoulder. 

"Do  you  care?"  he  asked  slowly.  "I  don't 
think  you  cared  before.  I  thought  you  were 
only  sorry  for  me  now.  Do  you  really  care?" 

"I  do  care !"  she  cried  recklessly.  "I  care — 
and  care — and  care.  My  God,  how  I 
care!" 

He  turned  his  face  upwards,  aim  over  it 
passed  a  dreadful,  mocking  smile. 


240         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"O  God  of  Mercy!"  he  muttered— "another 
torment !" 

He  drew  away  from  her. 

"I  shall  do  this  for  you/'  he  said  firmly. 
"I  intend  to  do  this.  And  then  we  must  not 
see  each  other  again.  I  hope  that  when  you 
marry,  as  you  must,  you  will  marry  a  good, 
clean  man — a  man  who  can  stand  out  among 
his  fellow-creatures,  and  need  not  shrink  away 
from  them,  as  I  must.  I  want  you  to  be  very 
happy  and  bring  happy  children  to  the  world. 
.  .  ."  His  voice  shook.  "And  forget  there 
are  unfortunate  people  in  it  ...  who  may 
only  gaze  hungrily  over  the  gulf  that  they  can 
never  cross." 

He  left  her  sobbing,  and  went  to  his  writing 
table. 

"No  one  will  know,"  he  said.  "I  will  draw 
it  to  myself.  The  bank  is  quite  close  here.  I 
will  walk  there  and  cash  it  at  once." 

He  wrote  the  check,  and  rose. 

"Wait  for  me  here,"  he  said.  "I  shall  only 
be  a  few  minutes."  And  he  went  out  with  the 
face  of  a  stricken  man. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
PROVIDING  FOR  THE  WORST 

THOUGH  Inspector  Fay  had  disclosed 
no  more  than  was  necessary  for  the 
purpose  of  the  initial  charge,  the  ar- 
rest of  James  Layton  was  popularly 
considered  to  have  solved  the  mystery  of  the 
murder  of  Christine  Manderson. 

No  one  realized  more  fully  than  Layton  him- 
self the  overwhelming  strength  of  the  case 
against  him.  He  was  as  good  as  condemned 
already.  Beyond  his  own  assertion  of  inno- 
cence, he  was  utterly  defenseless  against  a 
sequence  of  evidence  that  might  well  have  shat- 
tered the  strongest  reply.  And  he  was  with- 
out any  reply  at  all,  except  his  own  denial.  He 
could  only  admit  the  truth  of  the  damning 
train  of  circumstances,  in  face  of  which  his 
mere  word  was  hopelessly — and,  he  was  com- 
pelled to  acknowledge,  justly — inadequate. 
The  secret  of  his  identity — most  crushing  fact 
241 


242         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

of  all — was  lost.  He  was  the  Michael  Cran- 
bourne  whom  Christine  Manderson,  then  Thea 
Colville,  had  drawn  on  to  ruin  and  disgrace. 
He  had  threatened  her,  in  the  presence  of 
witness,  with  just  such  an  end  as  she  had  met 
with.  He  had  been  seen  lurking  in  the  garden 
at  the  time  of  the  crime.  He  had  been  beside 
himself.  And  to  all  that  he  had  no  more  con- 
vincing answer  than  the  plea  of  not  guilty. 
He  placed  himself,  quite  dispassionately,  in 
the  position  of  his  own  judge  and  jury.  There 
coud  be  only  one  result. 

The  strange  message  of  hope,  brought  to  him 
by  Jenny  West,  from  a  mysterious  foreigner 
who  had  declared  knowledge  of  his  innocence 
and  of  half  the  truth,  aroused  his  curiosity,  if 
no  more.  That  one  person,  at  all  events,  had 
discovered,  and  was  apparently  pursuing,  an 
alternative  to  his  own  guilt  was  interesting, 
if  a  slender  encouragement  to  build  on.  He 
was  not  disposed  to  cling  to  flimsy  hopes.  He 
accepted  his  position  with  perfect  calmness. 
Since  the  confession  of  his  identity  to  Inspector 
Fay  a  load  seemed  to  have  been  lifted  from 
his  mind,  and  with  it  had  passed  the  revival 


PROVIDING  FOR  THE  WORST     243 

of  mad  passion  which  the  sight  of  Christine 
Manderson's  fatal  beauty  had  aroused.  He 
found  himself  able  to  dwell  on  her  memory — 
even  to  contemplate  her  death — with  a  cold  de- 
tachment which  surprised  himself.  He  no 
longer  shrank  from  conjuring  up  her  image — 
but  now  it  was  a  dead  image  from  a  dead 
world.  And — not  without  surprise  also,  and 
perhaps  a  certain  satisfaction — he  found  him- 
self looking  forward  to  a  visit  from  Jenny 
West. 

She  came  to  him  at  the  appointed  time.  She 
was  very  white.  The  deep  shadows  of  sleep- 
less grief  and  anxiety  were  round  her  eyes — 
but  in  them  shone  the  fire  of  a  dogged,  daunt- 
less courage.  Her  great  untamed  soul  was 
aflame  with  revolt  against  the  implacable  cir- 
cumstances that  had  placed  the  man  whose 
name  a  thousand  had  blessed  on  the  highroad 
to  the  gallows.  She  threw  herself  against  the 
wall  of  facts  with  all  the  force  of  her  primitive 
love.  She  was  one  of  those  whose  trust  rises 
to  its  greatest  heights  when  opposed  to  rea- 
son. 

He  greeted  her  kindly.     He  was  cheerful 


244         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

and  composed.  He  showed  that  he  was  glad 
to  see  her. 

"We  shall  save  you,  Jim!"  she  declared, 
straining  back  the  tears  that  sprang  to  her 
eyes  at  his  kindness.  "I  know  we  shall!  I 
know  it!" 

"God  will  save  His  workman,"  he  returned 
quietly— "if  it  is  His  will." 

He  looked  at  her  closely.  And  something 
very  like  affection  came  into  his  face. 

"You  are  pale,"  he  said.  "You  are  over 
strained.  You  haven't  slept." 

She  bent  her  head,  to  hide  her  brimming 
eyes. 

"My  child  .  .  ."  he  said  gently. 

"What  does  it  matter,"  she  sobbed,  "if  I 
haven't  slept?  How  can  I  sleep — when  you 
are  ...  here?" 

"Listen,  my  dear,"  he  said — "we  must  face 
this  thing  squarely.  It's  no  use  trying  to  shut 
our  eyes  to  the  truth,  however  unpleasant  it 
may  be.  As  the  case  stands  at  present,  no 
jury  in  the  world  could  acquit  me.  I  have 
no  reply  to  the  charge,  except  to  declare  that 


PROVIDING  FOR  THE  WORST    245 

I  did  not  kill  Christine  Manderson — and  that 
will  not  help  me.  The  evidence  is  more  than 
enough  to  satisfy  any  impartial,  clear-think- 
ing man  or  woman.  It  would  satisfy  me. 
That  I  know  myself  to  be  innocent  will  not  as- 
sist me  to  establish  my  innocence.  Thousands 
of  things  may  happen  in  the  meantime — but  I 
must  prepare  to  suffer  the  penalty  for  a  crime 
that  I  did  not  commit." 

"You  shall  not!"  she  cried  passionately. 
"If  there  is  justice  in  heaven  or  earth,  you 
shall  not!" 

"I  do  not  cling  to  life,"  he  returned.  "It 
has  very  little  to  give  me,  or  to  take  away. 
Men  may  find  me  guilty — but  I  shall  stand 
before  God  innocent.  It  will  not  be  the  first 
time  I  have  stood  before  God." 

A  spark  of  his  old  fanaticism  flashed  into 
his  eyes  for  a  moment,  then  faded. 

"I  shall  be  ready,"  he  said  steadily,  "for 
whatever  He  sends." 

"Men  shall  not  find  you  guilty,"  she  de- 
clared. "There  are  three  people  working  for 
you.  The  truth  will  be  discovered." 


246         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Your  mysterious  Frenchman?"  he  smiled. 
"What  has  he  done?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  confessed.  "He  tells 
me  nothing — except  to  keep  on  promising  that 
you  will  be  saved.  And  that  is  enough  for 
me." 

A  frown  darkened  Layton's  face. 

"I  wish  you  would  not  put  yourself  so  com- 
pletely into  the  hands  of  a  stranger,"  he  said 
doubtfully.  "Who  and  what,  is  this  man? 
And  how  does  he  come  to  be  mixed  up  in  this 
affair?" 

"I  know  nothing  whatever  about  him,"  she 
replied.  "But  there  is  something  that  makes 
me  trust  him.  I  believe  he  will  keep  his 
promise."  . 

"I  don't  like  it,"  he  insisted. 

"If  I  didn't  help  him,"  she  said,  "I  could 
do  nothing.  And  I  should  go  mad." 

"What  has  he  given  you  to  do?"  he  asked 

"I  promised  not  to  tell  any  one,"  she  hesi- 
tated. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  had  better  tell  me.  You  have  no  one 
else  to  protect  you." 


PROVIDING  FOR  THE  WORST     247 

"It  is  something  I  can't  understand,"  she 
said  slowly.  "This  morning  I  had  to  write 
out  the  names  and  addresses  of  all  the  Art  and 
Picture  Dealers  from  the  Directory,  and  this 
afternoon  I  am  to  go  round  in  a  car  to  as  many 
of  them  as  I  can,  with  a  letter  from  the  French 
Embassy,  to  ask  if  any  articles  have  ever  been 
supplied  to,  or  orders  taken  from,  a  Miss 
Masters,  of  35,  De  Vere  Terrace,  Streatham, 
and  if  so,  what." 

Layton  stared  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"What  possible  connection  can  that  have 
with  the  case?"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  again.  "I've  tried 
to  think." 

"The  French  Embassy,"  he  mused.  "That 
is  strange.  .  .  ." 

He  checked  himself,  and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"You  time  is  nearly  up,"  he  said.  "Listen 
to  me  carefully.  There  is  one  very  important 
thing  that  I  want  you  to  understand.  What- 
every  may  develop  in  the  meantime,  I  intend 
to  prepare  for  the  worst." 

He  kept  her  silent  with  a  firm  gesture. 

"My  work  must  go  on.     No  matter  what 


248         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

happens  to  me,  my  work  must  go  on.  And 
it  must  be  carried  on  as  I  have  begun  it,  by 
some  one  who  has  worked  with  me,  and  under- 
stands my  objects — by  some  one  who  is  human, 
and  unlimited  by  sect  or  creed.  I  don't  want 
to  make  people  religious — it  would  spoil  most 
of  them.  I  want  to  make  them  healthy  and 
happy.  I  would  rather  they  were  clean  pagans 
than  unclean  Christians.  No  soul  is  saved  or 
lost  because  it  happens  to  take  a  certain  view 
of  the  Mysteries  of  God.  It  is  the  bodies  I 
care  for — the  bodies  I  want  to  build.  Hu- 
manity should  be  a  song  of  thanksgiving,  not 
a  prayer  for  alleviation." 

The  fires  kindled  again.  His  face  was  lit 
up. 

"You  must  continue  my  work.  If  I  should 
have  to  leave  it  ...  you  will  find  everything 
yours.  There  is  over  a  million.  Use  it  as 
I  have  taught  you.  Use  it  to  help  children 
to  grow  into  men  and  women,  and  men  and 
women  to  grow  into  old  men  and  women.  Use 
it  to  help  human  beings  against  the  cruelties 
they  inflict  on  each  other — and  animals  against 
the  cruelties  inflicted  on  them.  Promise  me 


PROVIDING  FOR  THE  WORST     249 

that  if  the  worst  happens,  you  will  go  on  where 
I  leave  off." 

Tears  blinded  her.     She  could  not  speak. 

"Promise,"  he  insisted. 

"I  will,"  she  sobbed.  "I  will  go  on — as  long 
as  I  can  live  after  you." 

He  stood  still,  looking  at  her  fixedly.  There 
was  the  dawn  of  an  awakening  on  his  face. 

"My  God!"  he  whispered,  "I  was  wrong. 
I  do  cling  to  life.  I  want  to  live.  O  God, 
save  me !" 

And  the  girl  uttered  a  great  sigh  of  thankful- 
ness, and  fell  fainting  against  the  wire  par- 
tition that  stood  between  them. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  TRANTER 

AT  one  o'clock  on  the  following  day, 
Monsieur  Dupont  sat  in  his  room 
waiting  for  Tranter.     At  half-past 
one  he  had  become  impatient.     At 
two  he  seized  the  telephone  directory,  and,  a 
minute  later,  the  instrument.     At  two-thirty 
he  obtained  his  number. 

The  answer  to  his  first  question  stiffened 
him  into  an  attitude  of  rigid  tensity. 

Mr.  Tranter  is  not  in,  sir,"  a  voice  told 
him.  "He  has  disappeared." 

"Disappeared  ?"  Monsieur  Dupont  echoed 
sharply. 

"We  do  not  know  what  has  happened  to 
him.  He  went  out  last  night  at  nine  o'clock, 
and  has  not  returned." 

"Not  returned  .  .  ."  the  listener  muttered. 
"We  are  getting  anxious,"  the  voice  went 
250 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  TRANTER    251 

on.  "He  left  orders  for  his  supper,  and  there 
is  no  doubt  that  he  intended  to  return.  We 
have  telephoned  to  the  hospitals  and  the  police 
stations,  but  nothing  has  been  heard  of  him. 
Do  you  happen  to  know  where  he  was  go- 
ing?" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Monsieur 
Dupont's  hands  were  clenched  so  tightly  round 
the  instrument  that  the  veins  stood  out  on 
them  like  cords. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  know  where  he 
was  going." 

He  rose  quickly. 

"I  will  find  him,"  he  promised  and  rang 
off. 

He  replaced  the  instrument,  and  stood  still. 
For  the  first  time  since  his  arrival  in  London 
fear  found  a  place  in  the  expression  of  his 
face. 

"Dieu"  he  whispered — "that  Crooked 
House  .  .  ." 

He  seized  his  hat  and  stick,  and  hurried  out 
to  his  car. 

Remarkable  changes  were  in  progress  when 


252         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

he  arrived  at  the  Crooked  House.  A  small 
army  of  workmen  swarmed  over  the  whole 
place  in  a  condition  of  feverish  energy.  There 
were  stacks  of  tools,  dozens  of  machines,  and 
cartloads  of  material.  At  first  sight  it  might 
have  appeared  as  if  nothing  less  than  the  ef- 
fects of  an  earthquake  coud  have  been  in  proc- 
ess of  repair — but,  as  Monsieur  Dupont  stood 
staring  about  him  in  amazement,  it  became  ap- 
parent that  the  men  were  engaged  in  eliminat- 
ing the  crookedness  of  the  garden,  and  must 
have  been  so  engaged  from  a  very  early  hour. 
Many  of  the  twisting  paths  had  been  shorn  of 
their  high  maze-like  walls  of  hedge,  and  the 
paths  themselves  were  in  varying  stages  of  con- 
version or  disappearance.  Under  rapid  and 
ruthless  hands  straightness  was  already  ap- 
pearing out  of  the  confusion.  Monsieur  Du- 
pont looked  positively  frightened. 

"Mon  Dieu,"  he  exclaimed  aloud,  "they  are 
making  it  a  human  garden !" 

The  house  itself  presented  a  no  less  startling 
aspect.  It  was  no  longer  gloomy,  deserted, 
and  silent.  It  was  teeming  with  life.  Every 
window  was  open,  and  from  within  came 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  TRANTER    253 

sounds  of  rapacious  cleaning.  A  hundred 
painters  had  commenced  a  vigorous  assault 
upon  the  exterior,  and  representatives  of  every 
branch  of  house  decoration  were  attacking  the 
interior.-  It  was  a  scene  of  resurrection. 

Monsieur  Dupont  almost  ran  to  the  open 
front  door.  Copplestone's  manservant  was  at 
work  in  the  hall,  and  came  forward  with  a 
sphinx-like  expression. 

"Mr.  Copplestone  ?"  said  Moniseur  Du- 
pont. 

"Mr.  Copplestone  is  away,  sir." 

"Away  .  .  .   ?" 

^He  left  in  the  car  early  this  morning,  sir, 
without  saying  where  he  was  going  or  when  he 
would  be  back." 

Monsieur  Dupont  was  plainly  staggered. 

"Was  he  alone?" 

"I  do  not  know,  sir." 

"You  do  not  know  ?" 

"I  did  not  see  him  leave,  sir.  He  gave  me 
my  instructions  in  the  library,  and  ordered  me 
to  remain  there  until  he  had  gone." 

Monsieur  Dupont  took  a  threatening  step 
towards  him. 


254         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Where  is  Mr.  Tranter?"  he  demanded, 
with  sudden  fierceness. 

The  man  met  his  challenging  gaze  steadily. 

"Mr.  Tranter,  sir  ?" 

"Mr.  Tranter  came  here  last  night — between 
ten  and  eleven  o'clock." 

"I  think  you  must  be  mistaken,  sir.  If  he 
had  come  here,  I  should  have  seen  him." 

Monsieur  Dupont  clenched  his  fists. 

"I  am  not  mistaken!  I  say  that  he  came 
here  last  night!" 

"I  did  not  see  him,  sir." 

"Since  then  he  has  disappeared.  He  has 
not  returned  to  his  house,  and  nothing  has  been 
heard  of  him.  Where  is  he  ?" 

"I  know  nothing  of  Mr.  Tranter,  sir." 

"That  is  not  true !"  Monsieur  Dupont  almost 
shouted. 

"Sir!" 

"I  say  that  is  not  true!" 

The  man  drew  himself  up. 

"It  certainly  is  true,  sir." 

"It  is  not !  Will  you  tell  the  truth  to  me — 
or  to  the  police?" 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  TRANTER    255 

"I  have  nothing  to  tell,"  the  man  insisted 
doggedly. 

Monsieur  Dupont  appeared  to  be  beside  him- 
self. 

"Dieu!"  he  cried,  "if  any  harm  has  come 
to  Mr.  Tranter,  you  shall  pay  for  it — all  of 
you !" 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

•"I  can  only  repeat,  sir,  that  I  have  not  seen 
Mr.  Tranter,  and  that,  so  far  as  I  know,  he  has 
not  been  to  this  house.  He  is  certainly  not 
here  now.  You  are  welcome  to  search  every 
room  for  him  if  you  like.  Mr.  Copplestone 
left  word  that  the  house  was  to  be  open  to  any 
one  who  might  wish  to  go  over  it." 

"He  said  that?"  Monsieur  Dupont  ex- 
claimed, his  anger  giving  place  to  astonish- 
ment. 

"Yes,  sir." 

Monsieur  Dupont  turned  away  without  an- 
other word,  and  walked  slowly  to  the  gates. 
Reaching  them,  he  stopped,  and  looked  back. 

"In  the  name  of  heaven,"  he  muttered, 
"what  happened  in  that  house  last  night?" 


256         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

He  went  back  to  his  car.  Amazement  and 
anxiety  were  blended  on  his  face.  It  was 
plain  that  his  calculations  had  received  an  un- 
expected check,  the  meaning  of  which  he  could 
not  at  present  grasp.  The  sudden  transforma- 
tion of  the  house  and  garden  was  a  develop- 
ment that  had  not  entered  into  his  scheme  of 
procedure.  It  presented  him  with  an  entirely 
new  and  unlooked-for  problem.  After  a  mo- 
ment's indecision,  he  took  out  his  pocket-book, 
referred  to  an  address,  and  gave  it  to  his  chauf- 
feur. 

During  the  return  journey  he  sat  with  his 
face  between  his  hands,  buried  in  thought. 
When  the  car  stopped  before  a  house  in  Gros- 
venor  Gardens,  he  lifted  his  head  slowly  and 
heavily,  as  if  rousing  himself  from  a  stupor. 

"Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe,  if  you  please,"  he  said 
to  the  footman  who  answered  his  summons. 

"Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe  is  not  at  home,  sir." 

"It  is  most  important,"  said  Monsieur  Du- 
pont.  "I  wished  to  speak  to  her  of  a  matter 
connected  with  Mr.  George  Copplestone." 

"She  went  away  early  this  morning,  sir." 

"Away?"  Monsieur  Dupont  repeated. 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  TRANTER    257 

"With  Mr.  Copplestone." 

Monsieur  Dupont  started  back. 

"With  Mr.  Copplestone?" 

"Yes,  sir.     Just  before  eight  o'clock." 

"With  Mr.  Copplestone  .  .  ." 

"He  came  in  his  car,  sir,  and  insisted  on  Mrs. 
Astley-Rolfe  getting  up  to  see  him.  She  went 
away  with  him  ten  minutes  afterwards,  with- 
out telling  us  where  she  was  going  or  when 
to  expect  her  back." 

Monsieur  Dupont's  face  had  become  blanker 
and  blanker.  He  stared  at  the  man  speech- 
lessly then  turned  from  the  door,  and  gazed 
in  a  helpless  fashion  up  and  down  the  street. 

"Mille  diables!"  he  murmured,  "what  does 
it  mean  .  .  ." 

He  got  into  his  car  again.  He  looked  about 
him  like  a  man  dazed  by  a  heavy  blow.  Re- 
turning to  the  Savoy,  he  went  up  to  his  room. 

There  was  a  telegram  on  the  table.  He 
opened  it,  and  read: 

"The   name  was   George   Copplestone 
Winslowe, 

LESSING." 


258         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

Monsieur  Dupont  uttered  an  extraordinary 
sound.  In  a  flash  the  gloom  and  uncertainty 
that  had  held  him  gave  place  to  a  seething  ex- 
citement. Crushing  the  telegram  into  his 
pocket,  he  rushed  from  the  room.  Two  min- 
utes later  he  was  on  his  way  to  Scotland  Yard. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
IN  PURSUIT 

INSPECTOR  FAY  was  occupied  with  the 
arrangement  of  the  evidence  to  be  pre- 
sented at  the  inquest  on  the  body  of 
Christine  Manderson.     He  disliked  in- 
terruptions when  at  work,  but  the  appearance 
of  Monsieur  Dupont  banished  his  annoyance, 
and  called  forth  a  smile  of  complacent  triumph. 
"My  friend,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  "you 
know  me  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  I  would 
not  mislead  you  ?" 

There  was  that  in  the  look  of  him  that  caused 
the  smile  to  fade  from  the  inspector's  face. 

"Of  course,"  he  replied,  laying  down  his 
papers. 

"There  is  not  a  moment  to  lose.     You  must 
come  with  me." 
"Come  with  you?" 
"Now — immediately." 
259 


2<5o         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"But  where?" 

"Wherever  it  may  be  necessary  to  go.  I 
do  not  yet  know  myself.  I  only  know  that  we 
must  go." 

"Impossible,"  the  inspector  declared.  "I 
must  be  ready  for  the  inquest." 

"If  you  do  not  come  with  me,"  Monsieur 
Dupont  retorted,  "you  will  not  be  ready  for 
the  inquest."  He  allowed  his  excitement  to 
overflow.  "Why  do  you  stand  there?"  he 
cried.  "I  tell  you,  there  is  not  a  moment  to 
lose.  Cannot  you  see  that  I  am  serious?  In 
all  the  years  that  you  have  known  me  I  have 
never  been  more  serious.  Come!" 

"What  for?"  demanded  the  inspector 
sharply. 

"To  discover  the  truth  of  the  death  of  Chris- 
tine Manderson." 

"The  truth  is  discovered,"  returned  the  in- 
spector, looking  down  at  his  papers. 

"The  truth  is  not  discovered,"  said  Mon- 
sieur Dupont. 

"It  is  a  perfectly  clear  case,"  the  inspector 
retorted.  "There  cannot  be  the  smallest  doubt 
that  Layton  killed  her." 


IN  PURSUIT  261 

"Layton  did  not  kill  her.  At  the  beginning 
I  warned  you  to  ignore  the  obvious.  But  you 
did  not.  Layton  is  no  more  guilty  of  the  crime 
than  you  are." 

"I  am  satisfied,"  the  inspector  said  shortly. 

"You  must  please  yourself,"  said  Monsieur 
Dupont.  "I  cannot  wait.  There  are  two 
lives  to  save — his  and  another.  I  came  here 
to  keep  my  word  to  you.  I  promised  that  if 
I  succeeded  in  solving  the  mystery,  I  would 
hand  the  rest  to  you.  I  do  not  want  credit 
from  this  affair.  There  is  another  meaning 
in  it  for  me.  I  am  ready  to  hand  the  rest  to 
you,  if  you  will  come  and  take  it.  If  you  will 
not  come — I  must  go  on  to  the  end  myself. 
The  choice  is  to  you." 

Inspector  Fay  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  turned  back  to  his  desk, 
and  locked  up  his  papers. 

"I  will  come,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
ETHICS  OF  KILLING 

THEY  swung  out  from  Scotland  Yard 
into  Whitehall. 
"What   has   happened?"   the    in- 
spector asked. 

Monsieur  Dupont  leant  forward,  controlling 
his  excitement  with  an  effort. 

"Mon  Dieu,"  he  said,  "I  wish  I  knew!" 
He  took  the  telegram  from  his  pocket. 
"It  is  an  hour  only  that  I  have  returned  from 
Richmond.     I    found    the   house   of    George 
Copplestone  in  course  of  transformation.     I 
found  all  the  windows  open.     I  found  men  and 
women   cleaning — painting — making   new.     I 
found  a  hundred  men  .  .  .  making  the  crooked 
garden  straight." 

"Well?"  said  the  inspector— "why  not?" 
Monsieur   Dupont   brought   his   hands   to- 
gether impatiently. 

262 


ETHICS  OF  KILLING  263 

"Why  not?  There  are  a  thousand  reasons 
why  not.  But  the  reason  why  ..." 

"Is  it  an  extraordinary  thing  for  a  man  to 
open  his  windows,  paint  his  house,  and 
straighten  his  garden?" 

"It  is !"  exclaimed  Monsieur  Dupont.  "It  is 
more  than  an  extraordinary  thing — it  is  a 
gigantic,  a  brain-splitting  thing — if  he  has  kept 
his  windows  closed,  his  house  unpainted,  and 
his  garden  crooked  for  twenty  years.  The 
house  of  a  man  is  the  reflection  of  his  soul. 
It  was  the  reflection  of  George  Copplestone's 
soul  yesterday.  But  .  .  .  something  hap- 
pened in  it  last  night.  And  to-day  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off,  and  began  to  smooth  out  the 
telegram  on  his  knee. 

"The  moment  I  entered  that  house,"  he  con- 
tinued, "I  knew  it  was  a  wicked  house.  And 
when  that  dreadful  thing  happened,  I  felt  posi- 
tively that  the  wickedness  of  the  house  had 
some  direct  connection  with  the  crime  in  the 
garden.  I  felt  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
solve  one  without  solving  the  other.  I  knew, 
also,  that  you  would  certainly  be  satisfied  with 
the  evidence  against  James  Layton,  and  would 


264         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

consider  no  other  possibility.  That  evidence,  I 
admit,  was  unanswerable — but  I,  with  some 
previous  knowledge  to  help  me,  knew  that  Lay- 
ton  was  innocent.  The  difficulty  in  front  of 
me  was  to  prove  the  guilt  of  the  real  criminal 
in  time.  My  friend  Tranter,  and  that  remark- 
able young  protegee  of  Lay  ton,  Jenny  West, 
agreed  to  help  me.  Together  we  began  to 
draw  the  nets,  and  the  criminal  was  aware  of 
our  movements.  In  the  country  yesterday  I 
discovered  the  identity  of  the  most  important 
witness  in  the  case — but  when  I  went  to  find 
her  in  the  evening,  she  had  been  snatched  away. 
I  instructed  Tranter  to  discover  and  bring  to 
me  the  secret  of  the  Crooked  House,  whatever 
it  might  be.  He  set  out  to  do  so  at  nine  o'clock 
last  night.  And  he  has  disappeared." 

"Disappeared?"  the  inspector  exclaimed. 

"Without  a  trace.  I,  only,  knew  where  he 
was  going.  And  not  only  has  he  disappeared 
— but  Copplestone  and  Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe  have 
disappeared  with  him." 

Inspector  Fay  began  to-  show  more  interest. 

"They  will  be  wanted  for  the  inquest,"  he 
said  sharply. 


ETHICS  OF  KILLING  265 

"If  we  do  not  find  them  in  time  for  the 
inquest,"  Monsieur  Dupont  returned,  "there 
will  be  two  inquests  to  hold." 

"Two  inquests?"  the  inspector  echoed. 

"I  could  not  understand  it,"  continued  Mon- 
sieur Dupont.  "It  was  contrary  to  all  my  cal- 
culations. I  was  bewildered — and  you  may 
recollect  that  I  am  not  often  bewildered  But 
when  I  returned  to  my  hotel,  I  found  this." 
He  held  out  the  telegram.  "It  is  the  answer  to 
a  certain  inquiry  I  have  made." 

"What  does  it  mean?"  the  inspector  asked, 
handing  it  back. 

"It  means,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont  slowly, 
"that  we  shall  be  lucky  if  we  find  Tranter 
alive." 

"Where  can  they  have  gone  ?" 

"I  do  not  know.  I  can  -only  guess — and 
if  I  have  not  guessed  rightly,  we  shall  not  see 
him  again. 

"Are  you  telling  me,"  the  inspector  de- 
manded, "that  Copplestone  killed  the  woman 
he  had  just  become  engaged  to?" 

"I  shall  tell  you  who  killed  her  within  twelve 


266         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

hours,"  Monsieur  Dupont  replied.  "I  will  tell 
you  why  she  was  killed  now." 

He  paused. 

"Why,"  he  asked,  "did  the  murderer,  who- 
ever it  was,  kill  her  so  horribly  ?  Why  was  it 
not  enough  to  deprive  her  of  life  ?  Could  one 
have  desired  more?  Why  was  she  stamped 
on,  and  torn,  and  crushed?" 

"It  was  obviously  done  in  the  madness  of 
jealousy  and  revenge,"  replied  the  inspector. 

"It  was  done  in  madness,"  said  Monsieur 
Dupont — "but  it  was  not  the  madness  of  jeal- 
ousy or  revenge.  It  was  the  madness  of  a 
strange  and  terrible  hatred.  It  was  done — 
because  the  killer  hated  her  beauty  and  not 
her." 

The  inspector  stared  at  him  blankly. 

"Hated  her  beauty,  and  not  her  ...   ?" 

"Twenty  years  ago,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont, 
"there  was  in  France  a  very  beautiful  woman. 
She  was  named  -Colette  d'Orsel.  It  was  said 
that  she  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the 
country.  She  was  also  very  rich,  very  gener- 
ous, and  very  kind.  She  was  always  doing 
good  actions.  She  had  not  an  enemy  in  the 


ETHICS  OF  KILLING  267 

world.  There  was  no  one  who  could  have 
wished  her  a  moment's  pain.  She  was  only 
twenty-five.  With  several  of  her  friends  she 
went  to  stay  at  Nice.  One  night  she  was  found 
in  the  gardens  of  her  hotel — almost  torn  to 
pieces." 

"I  remember  the  case,"  said  the  inspector. 
"It  was  a  ghastly  affair." 

"There  appeared  no  motive.  She  was  wear- 
ing some  splendid  jewels.  They  had  been 
crushed  with  her,  but  nothing  was  missing — 
not  a  stone.  She  had  just  returned  from  the 
tables,  and  had  not  troubled  to  deposit  her 
winnings  of  the  evening  with  the  cashier  of  the 
hotel.  Forty  thousand  francs  were  found  on 
the  body.  Not  a  note  had  been  touched.  The 
greatest  detectives  of  France  were  called  in  to 
solve  the  mystery — but  they  solved  nothing. 
They  made  the  mistake  of  trying  to  find  a 
motive.  They  looked  for  a  person  who  could 
have  had  a  reason  to  kill  her.  But  it  was  time 
lost.  They  should  have  looked  among  the 
people  who  had  no  reason  to  kill  her.  The 
weeks  became  months,  and  still  they  discovered 
nothing.  That  crime  is  a  mystery  to-day." 


268         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

The  inspector's  attention  was  rivetted.  He 
remained  silent. 

"Ten  years  ago,"  Monsieur  Dupont  pro- 
ceeded, "there  was  in  Boston  a  young  girl 
named  Margaret  McCall.  She  was  wonder- 
fully beautiful.  Her  parents  were  poor  people, 
and  she  worked  for  her  living.  She  was  quiet 
and  reserved  by  nature.  She  made  few 
friends,  and  cared  little  for  the  society  of  men. 
Naturally  there  were  hundreds  who  regretted, 
and  attempted  to  overcome,  that  -character- 
istic; but  she  went  her  own  way  quietly  and 
firmly.  One  evening  her  body  was  found  in 
a  lonely  part  of  one  of  the  public  parks  torn 
and  crushed  in  the  most  terrible  manner.  The 
police  were  helpless.  The  thing  that  baffled 
them  completely  was  the  absence  of  any 
motive  for  the  crime.  They  tried  to  find  one — 
but  all  that  they  found  was  what  I  have  said, 
that  she  had  been  a  good,  honest  girl — that 
she  had  had  no  enemies — that  she  had  not 
jilted  a  man,  or  wronged  a  woman — that  she 
had  never  flirted,  or  encouraged  men  to  pay 
attentions  to  her.  Yet  there  she  had  been 
found — broken  and  mutilated.  The  small  sum 


ETHICS  OF  KILLING  269 

of  money  she  carried  had  remained  untouched. 
The  crime  was  never  solved." 

His  voice  had  sunk  lower.  He  had  dwelt 
on  each  detail  with  impassive  deliberation. 

"This  week,  Christine  Manderson — without 
doubt  the  most  beautiful  woman  of  the  three 
— was  found  in  that  crooked  garden  at  Rich- 
mond, if  possible  in  a  more  horrible  condition 
than  either  of  the  others." 

"You  mean,"  exploded  the  inspector,  "that 
the  murderer  of  Colette  d'Orsel  at  Nice  twenty 
years  ago  also  killed  Margaret  McCall  in 
Boston  ten  years  after?" 

"I  do,"  replied  the  low  voice. 

"And  Christine  Manderson  here  three  days 
ago?" 

"And  Christine  Manderson  here  three  days 
ago.  But  this  time  there  was  a  difference. 
An  unfortunate  chain  of  circumstances  pro- 
vided clear  evidence  against  an  innocent  man 
— James  Layton.  I  admit  that  as  the  case 
stood  you  had  no  option  but  to  arrest  him. 
But  in  doing  so  you  committed  the  same  mis- 
take that  your  French  and  American  brothers 
had  committed  before  you.  They  had  looked 


270         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

for  a  motive,  and  could  not  find  one.  You 
found  a  motive,  and  devoted  yourself  to  the 
man  with  the  motive.  You  should  have  looked 
for  the  Destroyer." 

There  was  something  of  awe  in  the  silence 
that  followed,  like  the  hush  that  succeeds  the 
passing  of  a  storm. 

"My  friend,"  said  the  inspector  slowly, 
"what  utterly  monstrous  thing  are  you  telling 
me?" 

Monsieur  Dupont  turned  to  him  a  face  of 
massive  innocence. 

"Is  it  monstrous?"  he  said  mildly.  "If  a 
man  is  born  with  a  longing  to  kill  elephants, 
he  is  a  daring  sportsman.  If  the  longing  is 
to  kill  beetles,  he  is  a  scientist.  But  if  the 
inclination  is  to  kill  men — or  women — he  is  a 
criminal  lunatic.  Why?  If  the  desire  to  kill 
is  not  in  itself  monstrous,  the  desire  to  kill 
a  particular  thing,  whatever  it  may  be,  cannot 
be  monstrous.  It  can  only  be  illegal.  If  it 
is  dreadful  to  kill  a  young  child,  it  must  be 
dreadful  to  kill  anything  young.  If  it  is 
cowardly  for  a  man  to  kill  a  woman,  it  is 
cowardly  for  a  man  to  kill  the  female  sex  in 


ETHICS  OF  KILLING  271 

any  shape  or  form.  Yet,  what  scientist  allows 
the  matter  of  sex  to  interfere  with  the  impale- 
ment of  his  beetle?  Nor  would  he  do  so  if 
his  hobby  were  to  impale  human  beings.  If 
he  searches  for  a  beautiful  beetle  to  kill,  it 
only  requires  a  broadening  of  his  particular 
outlook  for  him  to  search  for  a  beautiful 
woman  to  kill.  There  may  be  a  perfectly  sane 
and  moral  country  in  the  world  (although  I 
have  never  heard  of  it)  in  which  it  would  be 
criminal  to  kill  the  beetle,  and  scientific  to  kill 
the  woman.  I  confess  that  a  well-mounted 
collection  of  beautiful  women  would  be  very 
much  more  interesting  to  me  than  the  finest 
collection  of  beautiful  beetles.  But  if  I  have 
the  one,  I  am  made  a  member  of  a  Royal 
Society — and  if  I  have  the  other,  I  am  exe- 
cuted. And  the  only  reason  for  that  is  that 
the  human  beings  make  the  laws,  and  not  the 
beetles." 

The  car  swung  round  a  sharp  corner,  and 
the  inspector's  amazement  was  interrupted  by 
the  sudden  necessity  of  keeping  his  position. 
Monsieur  Dupont  continued  slowly. 

"But  the  monstrousness  of  this  case  is  not 


272         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

that  three  people  have  been  killed — but  that 
three  people  have  been  more  than  killed.  It 
is  monstrous  because  we  have  none  of  the 
simple  dignity  of  the  primitive  slayer,  and  all 
the  morbid  excesses  of  the  modern  despoiler. 
While  it  might  be  an  entirely  respectable  thing 
to  kill  a  woman  to  preserve  her  beauty,  it  is  an 
entirely  monstrous  thing  to  kill  her  to  destroy 
it.  That  is  the  only  reason  why  the  collector 
of  beetles  and  butterflies  is  not  the  most  cold- 
blooded of  murderers.  That  is  the  only " 

"What  in  the  name  of  all  that's  unholy," 
gasped  the  inspector,  "are  you  going  to  say 
next?" 

Monsieur  Dupont  leant  forward  as  the  car 
stopped,  and  opened  the  door. 

"Next,"  he  replied  gravely,  "I  am  going  to 
inform  you  that  we  have  arrived  at  Padding- 
ton,  and  request  you  to  get  out." 


CHAPTER  XXX 
MONSIEUR  DUPONT'S  TASK 

HE    bought    the    tickets,    and    con- 
ducted the  inspector  to  a  train. 
"Where    are    we    going?"    de- 
manded the  bewildered  officer,  as 
Monsieur  Dupont  settled  himself  in  a  corner, 
and  produced  his  cigar  case. 

"We  are  going,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  "to 
a  delightful  little  village,  hidden  away  in  the 
hills  of  the  country — far  from  the  sins  of  cities 
— where  they  do  not  even  know  that  Paris  is 
the  center  of  the  world." 

Fortunately  they  had  the  carriage  to  them- 
selves. Monsieur  Dupont  smoked  in  silence 
for  some  minutes. 

"I  will  explain  to  you,"  he  began,  at  last, 

"how  I  came  to  be  concerned  in  this  affair. 

The  reason  was  that,  after  my  retirement,  I 

had  the  honor  to  marry  a  cousin  of  Colette 

273 


274         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

d'Orsel.  The  brother  of  my  wife  had  been 
one  of  the  party  at  Nice  at  the  time  of  the 
crime,  and,  though  there  was  not  the  least 
evidence  against  him,  the  police  had  allowed 
it  to  be  known  that  they  looked  upon  him  as 
the  guilty  person.  You  know  how  ready  cer- 
tain people  are  to  discuss  and  even  to  credit  the 
wildest  theories — and  you  know  also  that  after 
sufficient  discussion  the  wildest  theories  become 
not  only  possibilities,  but  probabilities.  The 
cloud  of  suspicion  hung  over  him,  ruining  his 
health  and  his  life,  and  casting  a  shadow  over 
the  whole  family.  When  I  married  my  wife, 
I  determined  that  the  shadow  should  be  re- 
moved. And  for  the  past  two  years  I  have  de- 
voted myself  to  that  object. 

"You  can  imagine,"  he  went  on,  after  a 
pause,  "the  difficulties  that  confronted  me. 
Eighteen  years  had  elapsed  since  the  crime  had 
been  committed.  Men,  women,  and  even 
buildings,  had  passed,  and  been  replaced — 
records  had  been  lost — memories  failed.  But 
money,  perseverence,  and  imagination  slowly 
conquered.  Step  by  step  the  years  were  over- 
come. With  the  aid  of  a  small  army  of 


MONSIEUR  DUPONT'S  TASK    275 

assistants,  I  succeeded  in  isolating  a  certain 
person.  I  placed  that  person  beside  the  dead 
body  of  Colette  d'Orsel,  and  began  my  pursuit. 
Mon  Dieu,  how  I  worked !  After  the  hardest 
year  oi  my  life,  I  at  last  established  a  link 
between  the  death  of  Colette  d'Orsel  and  the 
death  of  Margaret  McCall — and  that  link  was 
the  personality  I  had  isolated  in  the  first  place 
at  Nice.  But  it  had  changed  itself.  I  fol- 
lowed scent  after  scent — trail  after  trail. 
When  I  came  to  London  a  few  days  ago,  I 
had  sufficient  information  to  allow  me  to  com- 
mence the  final  stage  of  the  adventure.  I  had 
solved  the  most  difficult  question  of  all — the 
present  identity  of  my  quarry.  The  second 
most  difficult  question  remained  to  be  solved — 
proofs  of  guilt.  How  could  I  -obtain  them  ? 
How  could  I  prove  that  this  person — living 
here  in  all  the  security  of  time — was  the  per- 
son who  had  torn  those  two  women  to  pieces  in 
America  and  France  ten  and  twenty  years  ago  ? 
I  had  certain  clues  to  follow  up,  but  the  results 
could  not  possibly  have  been  sufficient  to  prove 
such  an  accusation.  What  was  I  to  do  ?  To 
rely  upon  observation?  To  search  for — and 


276         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

wait  for — a  proof  in  this  person's  daily  inter- 
course with  the  world?  To  place  a  beautiful 
woman  within  reach,  and  watch  for  a  betrayal  ? 
That,  was  actually  the  object  in  my  mind  when 
I  called  on  my  friend  Tranter,  and  requested 
him  to  open  to  me  the  doors  of  London  society. 
Sooner  or  later,  I  should  have  found,  or 
brought  about,  the  situation  I  was  looking  for. 
It  might  have  been  years — doubtless  it  would 
have  been  years — if  he  had  not,  by  the  most 
remarkable  chance,  taken  me  direct  to  that 
house  at  Richmond.  Then  came  the  death  of 
Christine  Manderson.  It  was  horrible — ap- 
palling! And  to  think  that  I,  who  had  de- 
tected and  tracked  the  Destroyer,  had  been 
there,  in  the  same  garden,  within  a  few  yards 
of  the  third  death,  and  yet  was  no  nearer  my 
proofs!  And  to  add  to  my  difficulties,  there 
was  the  certainty  that  an  innocent  man  would 
suffer  unjustly  if  I  could  not  succeed  in  time." 

He  paused,  looking  grimly  out  at  the  passing 
scenery. 

"And  if  I  had  not  sent  Tranter  to  the 
Crooked  House  yesterday,  I  do  not  know  how 
I  could  have  succeeded  in  time." 


MONSIEUR  DUPONT'S  TASK    277 

He  turned  abruptly  from  the  window,  put 
his  feet  up  on  the  seat,  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"I  am  a  little  tired,"  he  said.  "If  you  will 
excuse  me,  I  will  take  a  nap." 

He  slept  for  an  hour. 

They  got  out  at  a  small  country  station. 
The  shadows  of  the  hot  twilight  were  merg- 
ing into  darkness.  A  few  minutes  walking 
brought  them  to  an  inn,  at  which  Monsieur 
Dupont  demanded,  and  obtained,  a  conveyance. 

For  half  an  hour  they  drove  through  the 
heavily  scented  air  of  the  country.  Scarcely 
a  word  was  spoken  until  they  reached  another 
village.  There,  Monsieur  Dupont  requested 
the  inspector  to  alight  and  they  proceeded  on 
foot. 

The  red  rear-light  of  a  motor-car  appeared 
at  the  turn  of  a  corner.  Monsieur  Dupont 
drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Le  bon  Dieu  be  thanked!"  he  muttered. 

The  car  was  stationary  and  empty.  Mon- 
sieur Dupont  laid  a  hand  on  the  radiator. 

"It  is  hot,"  he  said.  "They  have  only  been 
here  a  few  minutes.  Do  not  make  a  sound." 


278         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

He  opened  a  gate.  The  long  low  shape  of  a 
house  was  in  front  of  them.  They  stood  still, 
listening.  There  was  no  sound,  no  light. 

"To  the  back,"  Monsieur  Dupont  whispered. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
WHAT  THEY  HEARD 

THEY  crept  round  the  house.     At  the 
back  a  pair  of  French  windows  were 
open,  but  heavy  curtains  were  drawn 
across  them.     No  light  was  visible. 
They  listened.     A  voice  was  speaking — slowly, 
scarcely  above  a  whisper,  but  a  whisper  of  con- 
temptuous pride. 

"Yes,"  it  said,  "I  am  the  Destroyer !  I  was 
born  to  kill.  It  was  the  curse  of  my  birth." 

The  silence  of  the  room  was  broken  only  by 
the  faint  sound  of  a  woman  sobbing.  Mon- 
sieur Dupont  and  the  inspector  drew  nearer 
to  the  window. 

"You  fools!"  said  the  arrogant  voice. 
"What  are  your  laws  of  Right  and  Wrong 
to  me?  I  am  Right  and  Wrong.  What  are 
your  Codes  of  Sin  ?  I  am  Sin.  Who  are  you 
to  judge  me?  Who  are  you  to  set  your  little 
laws  against  My  Madness?" 
279 


280         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Then  the  voice 
continued,  in  a  tone  of  dull  bitterness. 

"Ever  since  I  had  strength  to  break,  I  have 
broken — to  tear,  I  have  torn.  The  disease 
took  command  of  me  long  before  I  knew  its 
meaning.  When  I  was  a  child  the  sight  of 
pretty  things  frightened  me.  I  used  to  shrink 
from  them,  and  hide  my  face.  I  was  only  quiet 
and  normal  when  there  were  plain,  colorless 
things  about  me.  As  I  grew  older  the  fear 
developed  into  hatred — and  with  hatred  grew, 
slowly  and  subtly,  the  inclination  to  destroy. 
At  first  the  opposition  of  all  that  was  normal 
in  me  sufficed  to  keep  the  desire  in  check,  but 
day  by  day  it  grew  stronger  and  stronger,  and 
day  by  day  the  power  to  resist  became  less  and 
less.  The  increase  of  the  hatred  into  madness 
followed  the  growth  of  the  impulse  towards  the 
first  surrender.  It  came  upon  me  for  the  first 
time  when  I  was  twelve.  How  well  I  remem- 
ber that  day !  My  sanity  had  fought  its  strong- 
est battle,  and  my  head  was  still  throbbing  and 
swimming  with  the  strain  of  it.  I  was  taken 
to  a  strange  house,  and  left  alone  in  a  bright 
room.  On  the  wall  there  was  a  picture  of  a 


WHAT  THEY  HEARD          281 

very  beautiful  woman.  I  couldn't  take  my 
eyes  off  it.  I  couldn't  move  from  in  front  of 
it.  New  passions,  that  I  had  never  felt  before, 
were  tearing  me.  The  picture  seemed  to  be 
alive,  to  be  mocking  me.  I  hated  it.  I  felt 
that  it  was  cruel  and  loathsome — that  it  had 
wronged  me.  My  whole  body  was  on  fire — my 
brain  was  flaming.  Then  something  seemed  to 
snap  in  my  head.  I  lost  myself.  Irresistible 
forces  took  possession  of  me,  and  used  me. 
When  I  came  to  myself  .  .  .  the  picture  was 
lying  at  my  feet  ...  in  fragments." 

The  voice  settled  down  into  an  expression- 
less monotone,  pursuing  its  story  without  emo- 
tion. 

"From  that  moment  my  doom  lay  on  me. 
I  had  made  the  initial  submission.  Any  at- 
tempt at  resistance  after  that  was  futile.  I 
was  helpless.  Out  of  my  hatred  of  beauty  in 
any  shape  or  form  came  the  desire  to  obtain 
the  most  beautiful  things  I  could  find  to  enjoy 
the  mad  ecstasy  of  shattering  them.  I  had  all 
the  morbid  secret  longing  to  induce  attacks  of 
my  own  madness — to  enjoy  the  awful  exalta- 
tion, the  triumph  of  destruction.  I  was  not 


282         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

ashamed.  I  found  myself  entirely  without 
scruple,  without  conscience,  incapable  of  re- 
morse. When  the  periods  of  desire  were  upon 
me,  I  hesitated  at  nothing  to  gratify  them. 
At  first  they  were  frequent — sometimes  there 
were  only  a  few  days  between — but  as  I  grew 
older  the  intervals  lengthened,  until  sometimes 
I  dared  to  think  myself  free.  But,  sooner  or 
later,  it  came  again.  I  knew  all  the  warning 
signals — the  creeping  in  of  uncontrollable 
thoughts — the  brain  pictures — the  quickening 
of  mind  and  body — then  the  grip  of  the  mad- 
ness. All  I  could  do  at  such  times  was  to 
collect  a  number  of  things  sufficiently  beautiful 
to  satisfy  my  lust,  and  lock  myself  in  to  an 
orgy  of  destruction.  Then  I  was  normal  again 
for  another  period.  So  I  grew  up.  When  I 
was  twenty,  I  learnt  the  truth." 

"I  told  him,"  a  woman's  broken  voice  said. 
"I  hadn't  the  heart  to  tell  him  before.  I  was 
hoping  against  hope  that  the  curse  would  pass 
away  as  he  grew  into  manhood.  But  when  I 
saw  that  it  would  not  ...  I  told  him." 

"Then  I  knew  there  was  no  escape,"  the  dull 
voice  went  on.  "The  results  of  my  father's 


WHAT  THEY  HEARD  283 

vices  and  my  mother's  madness  were  my  in- 
heritance. God !  .  .  .  what  a  legacy !" 

The  voice  flamed  for  an  instant — then  sub- 
sided again  into  its  previous  monotony. 

"The  intervals  became  longer  and  longer, 
but  each  time  the  madness  recurred  it  tightened 
its  clutches.  Each  time  it  made  me  more  and 
more  its  own  property.  Whenever  the  warn- 
ings showed  themselves  I  fled  to  the  refuge 
of  Miss  Masters's  house.  She  bought  and 
kept  there  things  on  which,  when  the  mania  was 
at  its  height,  it  satisfied  me  to  expend  my  lust. 
But  those  inanimate  things,  though  sufficient 
for  that  purpose,  had  no  power  in  themselves  to 
produce  an  attack  of  the  madness.  The  cap- 
ability to  do  that  was  reserved  to  a  woman's 
beauty — the  effect  of  which,  so  far,  I  had  had 
no  opportunity  to  experience.  That  oppor- 
tunity came  to  me  for  the  first  time  at  Nice — 
twenty  years  ago.  I  had  never  seen  a  really 
beautiful  woman  before  I  saw  Colette  d'Orsel." 

Another  pause  followed  the  name.  The 
room  behind  the  curtains  remained  in  tense 
silence  until  the  voice  resumed. 

"I  can  remember  it  now — as  if  it  were  yes- 


284         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

terday.  How  she  stood  there — in  the  soft 
shaded  light — terribly  beautiful.  And  I — the 
Destroyer — watched  her  paralyzed — knowing 
for  the  first  time  the  pinnacle  of  my  madness. 
The  sight  of  her  numbed  all  my  sanity.  I 
could  no  more  have  torn  myself  away  from 
that  place  than  I  could  have  resisted  the  new 
flood  of  my  disease  that  broke  over  me  like  a 
nightmare  wave.  I  was  introduced  to  her. 
As  I  bent  over  her  hand  I  almost  laughed  at 
the  thought  of  what  her  hprror  would  have 
been  if  she  had  known  the  impulses  that  surged 
through  me.  Her  voice — the  touch  of  her — 
burnt  into  me  like  flames.  I  knew  what  the 
end  would  be,  but  I  was  powerless  in  the  grip 
of  my  inheritance.  And  she — in  the  pitiless 
irony  of  it — liked  me!  Three  evenings  later 
I  met  her  in  the  gardens  of  the  hotel.  We  sat 
together  .  .  .  alone  for  the  first  time.  I 
struggled.  My  God,  I  struggled!  But  it  was 
useless.  The  white  shape  of  her  next  to  me 
— the  dim  outline  of  her  features — the  whole 
nearness  of  her  beauty.  .  .  Then  it  came  on 
me,  as  I  knew  it  would — the  final  rush  of  ir- 
resistible hatred.  When  I  knew  myself  again 


WHAT  THEY  HEARD  285 

.  .  .  she  was  lying  on  the  ground  .  .  . 
smashed  ...  my  first  living  victim." 

The  woman  sobbed. 

"God  forgive  him!"  she  cried.  "He  was 
innocent  himself.  It  wasn't  really  him  .  .  ." 

Light  footsteps  moved  across  the  floor. 

"Let  me  be,"  said  the  voice  hardly.  "What 
God  does  with  me  is  for  God  to  do.  Sit  down 
again." 

The  footsteps  returned. 

"I  left  her  there,  and  went  back  to  the  hotel. 
I  sat  down  in  my  room,  and  analyzed  my  feel- 
ings. The  madness  had  left  me.  My  mind 
was  perfectly  clear  and  steady.  I  felt  no  hor- 
ror at  what  I  had  done — no  remorse — only  a 
sense  of  impersonal  regret  at  the  death  of  an 
innocent  woman,  and  a  faint  detached  pity  for 
her  misfortune  in  crossing  my  path.  I  care- 
fully considered  my  position,  and  certainty 
that  there  could  be  no  evidence  against  me  dis- 
pelled any  fears  for  myself — but  my  cold- 
blooded sanity  realized  that  the  odds  were  tre- 
mendously against  a  recurrence  of  the  same 
good  fortune,  and  that  the  avoidance  of  the 
opposite  sex  must  become  the  chief  care  of  my 


286         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

life.  Then  I  went  to  bed,  and  slept  soundly. 
The  discovery  of  Colette  d'Orsel's  body  early 
the  next  morning  provided  the  sensation  of  the 
year  at  Nice.  The  police  were  confounded. 
There  was  no  motive — no  clue.  It  is  an  un- 
solved mystery  to-day." 

The  callousness  of  the  story  was  so  revolting 
that  even  the  inspector,  seasoned  as  he  was, 
allowed  a  muttered  expression  of  disgust  to 
escape  him.  But  Monsieur  Dupont  remained 
as  silent  and  still  as  the  house  itself. 

"Ten  years  later,"  continued  the  voice,  "I 
went  to  America.  For  five  years  I  had  been 
free  from  any  return  of  the  madness.  You 
can  imagine  the  longing  to  be  like  other  men — 
to  presume  on  the  years  of  immunity.  I  felt 
unshakably  sane.  I  even  felt  that  I  had  never 
been  mad.  I  gloried  in  the  keenness  of  my 
intellect,  the  absolute  order  and  control  of  my 
thoughts.  What  had  I  to  do  with  madness? 
But  in  Boston  ...  I  saw  Margaret  McCall. 
In  an  instant  I  was  mad.  In  an  instant " 

A  cry  tore  the  air — a  cry  so  awful  in  its 
inhuman  fury  that  the  two  listeners  shrank 
back  horrified.  For  a  moment  the  room 


WHAT  THEY  HEARD  287 

seethed  with  confusion.  The  voices  of  men 
and  women  were  blended  in  rage,  terror,  and 
command.  Then  the  curtains  were  wrenched 
aside,  and  two  figures  rushed  out  shrieking  into 
the  darkness  of  the  garden. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
THE  BEAUTY-KILLER 

FOUR  more  figures  dashed  out  through 
the  curtains — two  women  and  two 
men.     The  inspector  and  Monsieur 
Dupont  joined  them.     Guided  by  the 
sounds  in  front  of  them,  they  dashed  across 
the  garden  at  the  top  of  their  speed. 

A  black  wall  of  earth  loomed  up  before  them, 
like  the  rising  of  a  gigantic  wave.     It  was 
strongly  rivetted,  and  must  have  been  at  least 
ten  feet  high.     It  was  quite  inaccessible  from 
where  the  pursuers  stopped  beneath  it. 
"Look !     Look !"  a  woman  screamed. 
They  looked  up. 

"My  God!"  the  inspector  exclaimed. 

On    the    height    above    them,    silhouetted 

against  the  pale  sky  of  the  summer  night,  they 

saw  a  figure — its  arms  uplifted  in  an  attitude 

of  majesty,  of  triumphant  defiance.     The  white 


THE  BEAUTY-KILLER          289 

light  of  the  moon  lit  up  a  face  terrible  beyond 
words  in  its  pride,  its  sin,  and  its  utter  mad- 
ness. 

"I  am  the  Beauty-Killer!  I  killed  Colette 
d'Orsel!  I  killed  Margaret  McCall.  I  killed 
Christine  Manderson  .  .  ." 

Another  figure  scrambled  up  out  of  the  dark- 
ness on  to  the  height,  and  the  silver  head  of 
Oscar  Winslowe  gleamed  in  the  light.  For 
a  moment  he  crouched — then  sprang  forward 
with  a  yell.  The  two  figures  swayed  back- 
wards in  a  fierce  struggle. 

"They  will  go  down!"  a  man's  voice  cried. 
"It  is  the  edge  of  a  gravel  pit.  The  fence 
will  not  bear.  There  is  a  sheer  drop  of  fifty 
feet." 

"Let  them  go,"  another  woman  sobbed.  "It 
is  the  best  way." 

And,  even  as  she  spoke,  there  was  the  sound 
of  tearing  woodwork.  The  struggling  figures 
stood  out  for  an  instant  with  startling  clear- 
ness— then  disappeared  like  the  sudden  shut- 
ting off  of  a  moving  picture.  And  the  whole 
night  seemed  to  wince  at  the  thud  that  fol- 
lowed. 


290         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"We  must  go  down,"  the  man's  voice  said, 
breaking  the  silence  in  an  awestruck  whisper. 
"There  is  a  way  round  the  other  side." 

They  followed  him  round  the  edge  of  the  pit. 
It  seemed  like  walking  round  the  world.  They 
descended  a  steep  slope — and  then,  in  the  vast 
gray  silence,  a  circle  of  pale  faces  surrounded 
the  dead  bodies  of  Oscar  Winslowe,  and  John 
Tranter. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
LAST  TRUTHS 

4 '  "1^      IF  Y  friends,"  said  Monsieur  Du- 

I  %  / 1      pont,  "you  have  already  heard  a 

y  great  part  of  the  story.     John 

Tranter  was  the  son  of  Oscar 

Winslowe.     He   was   mad.     He   was,   as    he 

called  himself  truly,  a   Beauty-Killer.     That 

strange  lust  he  inherited  from  -his  mother,  who 

had  been  robbed  of  all  she  cared  for,  and  hoped 

for,  in  life  by  a  'beautiful  woman,  and  rendered 

insane  three  months  before  his  birth.     It  was 

a    most    pathetic    tragedy.     We    shall    now 

hear " 

"One  moment,"  Inspector  Fay  interrupted. 
"As  I  represent  the  police  here,  I  should  be 
glad  to  know,  before  we  go  any  further,  whose 
house  I  am  in." 

"Pardon  me,"  Monsieur  Dupont  apologized. 
"I  had  forgotten.  You  are  in  the  house  of 
Doctor  Lessing,"  he  inclined  himself  towards 
291 


292         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

the  doctor,  "who  will  in  due  course  repeat  to 
you  a  statement  which  he  made  to  me  yester- 
day. This  lady  is  Miss  Masters,  who  was 
Tranter's  nurse.  Mrs.  Astley-Rolfe  and  Mr. 
Copplestone — which,  I  fancy,  is  not  his  correct 
name — you  know  already." 

He  added  a  high  compliment  to  the  inspect- 
or's present  position  and  past  achievements, 
and  then  turned  to  Copplestone. 

"Mr.  Copplestone,  when  Tranter  did  not 
return  to  me  at  the  appointed  time  this  after- 
noon, I  went  to  your  house.  I  found  great 
changes.  I  found  it,  as  you  say,  upside  down." 

Copplestone  was  radiant  with  happiness. 
Every  trace  of  the  old  gloom  had  left  him. 
He  was  a  new  man. 

"I  shouM  think  you  did !"  he  retorted.  "And 
you'd  have  found  the  earth  upside  down  as 
well,  if  I'd  been  able  to  turn  it." 

"I  was  puzzled,"  Monsieur  Dupont  admitted. 
"I  could  not  understand  it.  But  I  knew  this — 
that  when  the  shadows  roll  away  from  a  man's 
house,  they  roll  away  from  his  life.  When  he 
draws  the  blinds  and  throws  open  the  windows 
of  his  house  to  the  light  and  the  air,  he  draws 


LAST  TRUTHS  293 

the  blinds  and  throws  open  the  windows  of  his 
soul.  When  he  straightens  his  garden,  he 
straightens  himself.  I  knew  that  before  you 
would  lift  the  cloud  from  your  house  something 
must  have  lifted  the  cloud  from  you.  You  had 
been  delivered " 

"There  was  a  fellow  in  the  Bible,"  said  Cop- 
plestone — "I  think  he  was  a  king — who  was 
cured  of  leprosy  by  taking  a  dip  in  a  river. 
I  don't  know  what  happened  afterwards,  but  I 
am  quite  sure  that  he  turned  his  palace  upside 
down  when  he  got  back." 

He  sprang  up,  his  face  illuminated  with  all 
the  wonder  of  his  new  birth. 

"I  am  free !"  he  cried.  "Free !  That's  what 
my  house  told  you.  I  had  been  brought  out 
into  the  light  after  half  a  life  of  darkness.  I 
had  been  released  after  forty  years  of  prison, 
of  torment  that  all  the  tortures  of  the  Inqui- 
sition at  once  couldn't  have  equalled." 

He  stared  about  him,  like  an  intoxicated  man. 

"This  room  is  too  small !"  he  almost  shouted. 
"Everything  is  too  small.  I  want  to  dance  on 
the  Universe.  I  want  the  world  to  be  a  foot- 
ball. I  want  to  play  enormous  games  with 


294         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

giants — "  He  checked  himself  abruptly,  and 
sat  down.  "Forgive  me/'  he  said.  "You 
would  understand,  if  you  knew  what  I  have 
suffered." 

"I  can,  for  one,"  agreed  the  doctor  heartily. 

"And  I,  indeed,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont. 
"But  to  proceed  with  the  story — I  think  it 
would  be  better  to  commence  with  what  Miss 
Masters  has  to  tell  us." 

He  bowed  to  a  gray-haired,  grief-stricken 
woman.  There  was  a  pause  before  she  over- 
came her  emotion  sufficiently  to  speak. 

"I  took  charge  of  Mary  Winslowe's  child 
from  its  birth,"  she  began,  at  last.  "She  en- 
trusted it  to  me  in  her  sane  moments,  and  I 
kept  my  trust  faithfully.  Perhaps  it  would 
have  been  better  if  I  had  not." 

"You  did  your  duty,"  the  doctor  said. 

"It  was  a  condition  that  he  should  never 
come  under  his  father's  influence,  or  even  know 
his  real  name.  He  was  to  be  kept  in  complete 
ignorance  of  the  tragedy  of  his  birth.  It  was 
necessary  for  him  to  be  christened  in  his  proper 
name  to  legalize  the  inheritance  of  his  mother's 
fortune,  but  after  that  I  took  him  away,  and 


LAST  TRUTHS  295 

brought  him  up  in  strict  accordance  with  my 
promises.  He  was  told  that  both  his  parents 
had  been  drowned  at  sea.  I  gave  him  the  name 
of  John  Tranter — Tranter  was  an  old  family 
name  of  mine.  He  was  a  bonny  little  fellow. 
I  never  thought  that  he  might  have  inherited 
his  mother's  madness." 

"The  Laws  of  Nature  are  inexorable,"  said 
the  doctor.  "If  only  the  Second  Command- 
ment were  given  to  people  as  the  Law  of 
Nature  instead  of  the  threat  of  God,  it  would 
be  of  some  value." 

"I  hardly  realized  it,"  she  went  on,  "even 
when  the  symptoms  had  unmistakably  devel- 
oped. But  it  increased  too  plainly  to  be  denied. 
I  hoped  and  prayed  that  the  horrible  disease 
would  pass  away  from  him  as  he  grew  up — 
but  it  grew  stronger  and  stronger  with  him. 
At  last  he  made  me  tell  him  what  it  really  was. 
It  was  against  my  promise,  but  he  had  to  know. 
I  pledged  my  word  that  I  would  keep  his  secret, 
and  it  was  arranged  that  whenever  he  felt  the 
approach  of  an  attack  he  would  come  to  me.  I 
kept  things  for  him.  At  first  smaller  things 
satisfied  him.  He  was  content  to  destroy 


296         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

flowers,  pictures,  prettily  colored  china,  any- 
thing that  was  beautiful.  But  after  that  visit 
to  France,  when  he  was  twenty,  there  was  a 
change.  He  never  told  me  what  had  happened 
— that  he  had  killed  a  woman — but  from  that 
time  only  a  woman's  beauty  would  satisfy  him. 
The  attacks  became  few  and  far  between,  but 
when  they  came  he  would  have  died  with  the 
very  force  of  his  madness  if  he  had  not  had 
some  representation  of  a  beautiful  woman  to 
expend  it  on." 

"It's  frightful — incredible,"  the  inspector  ex- 
claimed. 

"It  was  all  the  more  pitiful,"  she  said,  "be- 
cause his  sanity  was  so  wonderful.  He  had 
a  towering  intellect.  He  succeeded  in  any- 
thing he  put  his  hand  to." 

"He  was  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  greatest 
authorities  on  finance  in  the  country,"  said  the 
inspector. 

"He  could  have  been  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment before  he  was  thirty  if  he  had  cared  for 
politics.  He  refused  a  title.  To  be  a 'Privy 
Councillor  was  the  only  honor  he  accepted. 
And  he — one  of  England's  great  men — came 


LAST  TRUTHS  297 

to  my  little  house  at  Streatham  to  gratify  his 
madness  to  destroy." 

She  looked  round  at  them  defiantly,  anger 
displacing  the  sorrow  on  her  face. 

"But  he  was  not  guilty,"  she  declared.  "His 
hands  may  have  killed  those  three  women — but 
he  was  not  guilty.  Nor  was  that  poor  innocent 
woman,  his  mother,  who  died  in  the  madhouse. 
They  were  both  clean  of  sin.  It  was  on  his 
wicked  father  that  the  guilt  lay.  It  was  Oscar 
Winslowe  who  was  responsible  for  the  lives 
that  have  fallen  to  his  sins.  Oscar  Winslowe, 
and  no  one  else." 

"I  bear  witness  to  that,"  agreed  Doctor 
Lessing.  "Mary  Winslowe  was  the  gentlest, 
the  sweetest,  and  the  most  patient  woman  that 
ever  walked  this  ea-rth,  as  you  will  see  when  I 
tell  you  my  story.  And  he  was  the  biggest 
blackguard  that  ever  blasphemed  the  likeness 
of  his  Maker." 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  woman. 

She  drew  back  in  her  chair,  and  pressed  a 
hand  to  her  forehead. 

"That  is  all  I  have  to  tell  you,"  she  con- 
cluded. 


298         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

"Last  night,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  "I 
called  at  your  house,  and  was  told  by  the  lady 
who  lives  next  door  that  you  had  left  in  a 
hurry  two  hours  before." 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"I  presume  that  you  did  so  on  instructions 
from  Tranter?" 

"Yes." 

"Evidently  he  shadowed  me  to  Paddington 
Station,  as  I  expected  he  would,  and  decided 
to  remove  you  in  case  I  should  get  on  the  right 
track." 

"He  sent  me  an  urgent  message,"  she  said, 
"saying  that  a  great  disaster  hung  over  his 
head,  and  that  I  must  go  away  without  leaving 
any  trace.  He  told  me  where  to  go,  and  prom- 
ised to  come  to  me  and  explain." 

"He  knew  that  it  was  only  you  who  could 
give  any  proof  against  him?" 

"After  forty  years,"  she  returned,  with  a 
touch  of  bitterness,  "he  ought  to  have  known 
that  I  should  not  betray  him." 

"Even  if  one  had  told  you  of  those  three 
dreadful  crimes  that  he  had  committed,  and 


LAST  TRUTHS  299 

that  an  innocent  man  was  accused  of  the  last 
one?" 

She  locked  her  hands  together. 

"Don't  ask  me,"  she  cried.  "I  don't  know 
what  I  should  have  done." 

"He  foresaw  that  problem,"  said  Monsieur 
Dupont.  "His  sanity  was,  as  you  have  said, 
wonderful.  But  the  sanity  of  madness  is 
always  wonderful — that  is  why  madmen  are 
such  superb  criminals.  It  is  only  a  madman 
who  can  be  really  sane.  Although  I  allowed 
him  to  see  that  I  knew  already  something  of 
the  truth,  he  never  betrayed  himself  by  even  a 
tremor.  He  had  all  the  grand  egotism  of  the 
'born  criminal.  His  disguise  was  impenetra- 
ble. He  was  never  sure  how  far  my  knowl- 
edge went,  but  not'a  sign  of  anxiety  did  he  ever 
show.  We  played  a  game  of  cross  purposes. 
I  used  him,  under  the  pretense  of  requiring 
his  assistance,  to  keep  him  by  my  side,  and  in 
the  hope  that  as  he  saw  me  draw  nearer  to  him 
step  by  step,  he  would  break  down.  He,  on 
his  side,  allowed  himself  to  be  used  in  order  to 
keep  watch  on  my  moves,  and  safeguard  him- 


300         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

self  against  them,  as  he  did  in  the  case  of 
Miss  Masters.  He  dared  not  leave  me.  In  all 
my  conversations  with  him,  I  placed  him  more 
and  more  at  his  wit's  end  to  know  how  much  I 
really  knew.  As  much  from  curiosity  as  from 
anything,  I  instructed  him  to  discover  the 
secret  of  Mr.  Copplestone's  house,  for  I  was 
convinced  that  it  did  contain  an  interesting 
secret.  He  was  quite  willing  to  make  the 
attempt.  It  did  not  promise  to  lead  me  any 
nearer  to  him.  He  little  thought  when  he 
went — and  I  had  little  thought  when  I  sent 
him — that  he  was  going  to  his  own  undoing." 

"And  my  salvation,"  Copplestone  added. 

"There,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont,  "it  passes 
to  you  to  enlighten  me." 

"First,"  returned  Copplestone,  "I  should 
like  to  know  what  caused  you  to  be  so  positive, 
after  being  in  my  house  only  two  or  three 
hours,  that  there  was  a  secret  in  it." 

"My  instinct  for  the  mysterious  is  seldom 
at  fault,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont.  "Have  you 
not  observed  how,  by  their  characters,  their 
habits,  and  their  desires,  human  beings  draw 
to  themselves  certain  events  and  conditions  of 


LAST  TRUTHS  301 

life  ?  And  it  is  equally  true  that  houses  draw 
to  themselves  certain  contents  and  certain 
kinds  of  inhabitants.  If  a  house  is  particu- 
larly adapted  to  contain  a  secret,  in  the  course 
of  time  will  certainly  contain  one.  By  a  few 
strokes  of  his  pencil  an  architect  can  condemn 
a  house  to  become  the  scene  of  a  murder,  as 
surely  as  he  can  make  it  a  convenient  or  incon- 
venient dwelling.  Your  house  was  constructed 
to  hide  a  secret.  And  I  was  not  only  sure  that 
it  did  hide  one,  but  that  it  hid  one  which  was 
in  some  way  connected  with  the  crime  in  the 
garden." 

"I  have  had  some  experience  of  that  instinct 
of  your's,"  the  inspector  remarked,  with  a 
somewhat  rueful  smile. 

"Well,"  said  Copplestone,  "instinct  or  no 
instinct,  it  certainly  did  hide  a  secret,  and  that 
secret  was  that  Oscar  Winslowe  lived  in  it — 
if  his  condition  could  be  called  living.  For  the 
last  five  years  he  had  been  practically  a  helpless 
imbecile.  He  seldom  uttered  a  sound  beyond 
a  gibber,  and  hardly  seemed  to  be  conscious. 
He  was  suffering  the  natural  consequences  of 
his  vices.  He  had  been  gradually  reaching 


302         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

that  condition  since  nature  had  dealt  him  her 
first  stroke  of  vengeance  more  than  thirty 
years  ago.  One  by  one  his  faculties  had  rotted. 
He  was  a  living  mass  of  decay." 

"It  was  a  sure  thing,"  the  doctor  said. 
"Such  a  condition  was  bound  to  come.  I 
prophesied  it  to  his  face  when  I  first  knew  him." 

"That  was  the  secret  of  my  house,"  Copple- 
stone  proceeded.  "My  own  secret  was  that  I 
believed  myself  to  be  his  son — the  inheritor  of 
the  curse  that  really  belonged  to  Tranter. 
And  the  horror  of  it,  the  helplessness,  the  con- 
stant contemplation  of  the  awful  state  of  the 
man  I  knew  as  my  father,  and  the  morbid 
certainty  that  sooner  or  later  I  must  come  to 
the  same  state,  actually  drove  me  to  the  mad- 
ness that  was  not  really  in  me  at  all." 

"But  how  had  you  come  to  believe  yourself 
to  be  his  son?"  the  inspector  asked. 

"That  was  the  last  of  Winslowe's  diabolical 
acts.  He  inherited  a  large  fortune  on  con- 
dition that  a  child  of  his,  to  whom  it  could 
succeed,  was  alive  at  the  time  of  the  testator's 
death.  He  did  not  know  anything  of  his  own 
child,  and  did  not  want  to.  He  was  afraid 


LAST  TRUTHS  303 

that  if  he  made  public  inquiries  for  it,  he 
might  learn  publicly  that  it  was  dead,  and  lose 
his  claim.  Also,  he  was  afraid  of  other  com- 
plications and  exposures." 

"And  with  good  reason,"  said  the  doctor 
grimly. 

"He  wanted  a  child  of  five  to  produce  as 
his  son,  George  Copplestone  Winslowe — and 
possibly  make  away  with  in  due  course  after 
the  business  was  settled.  I  am  quite  sure  that 
would  have  been  my  fate  if  nature  had  not 
come  to  my  rescue  by  striking  him.  He  knew, 
from  his  knowledge  of  the  underworld  of  Lon- 
don, how  such  things  could  be  arranged  with- 
out risk.  No  doubt  he  bought  me  for  a  few 
pounds.  I  am  not  the  first  heir  to  an  estate 
who  has  been  produced  by  such  means." 

"True  enough,"  agreed  the  inspector.  "The 
heir  to  a  million  has  been  bought  for  a  fiver." 

"But  a  few  years  after  taking  possession  of 
the  fortune,  he  was  struck  down,  as  I  have  said, 
by  the  first  instalment  of  nature's  retribution, 
and  was  incapable  of  carrying  out  his  plans. 
No  one  cared  for  me.  No  one  thought  of  re- 
moving me  from  the  sight  and  influence  of  his 


304         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

growing  imbecility.  I  was  brought  up  under 
the  shadow  of  it.  And  so  the  horror  was  born 
in  me — the  belief  that  I  was  mad.  What 
chance  had  I  to  resist  it,  in  those  surround- 
ings? When  I  came  to  an  age  to  do  so,  I 
searched  out  the  story  of  my  birth,  of  my 
father's  excesses  and  my  mother's  madness, 
and  my  doom  crashed  upon  me.  Can  you  won- 
der that  I  became  what  I  was?" 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont. 

"I  dropped  the  name  of  Winslowe.  It  was 
loathsome  to  me.  I  used  my  other  two  names, 
George  Copplestone.  They,  at  least,  had  come 
from  my  mother's  side.  My  old  manservant 
and  his  wife  stuck  to  me,  and  kept  my  secrets. 
The  income  devolved  on  me  in  consequence  of 
Winslowe's  incapability.  And  so  things  went 
on.  In  my  morbid  demoralization  I  saw  my- 
self growing  nearer  and  nearer  to  that  wretched 
creature  day  by  day." 

"Dreadful!"  shuddered  the  doctor.  "It 
must  have  been  a  living  hell." 

"Then,  last  night,  Tranter  came.  He 
climbed  up  on  the  ivy,  and  tried  to  spy  into 
Winslowe's  room.  But  I  was  there,  and  heard 


LAST  TRUTHS  305 

him.  I  dragged  him  in  through  the  window. 
I  suppose  it  was  some  look,  some  likeness  to 
his  mother,  that  stirred  Winslowe's  memory. 
He  recognized  him,  and  a  flash  of  sanity  came 
back  to  him.  Under  that  sudden  mental 
stimulation  he  recovered  his  power  of  move- 
ment, and  was  able  to  confess  at  least  a  part 
of  the  truth.  Tranter  was  taken  off  his  guard, 
and  I  forced  him  to  admit  his  madness.  I  com- 
pelled him  to  take  Winslowe  and  myself  to  Miss 
Masters,  and  she,  in  her  turn,  brought  us  here." 

"I  imagined  she  would,"  Monsieur  Dupont 
remarked. 

Copplestone  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  laughed 
aloud. 

"And  I  am  like  other  men!  I  can  live  as 
other  men  live.  I  can  do  what  other  men  do. 

I  can "  His  eyes  rested  on  the  woman 

beside  him,  and  his  face  grew  tender.  "Yes," 
he  repeated  slowly,  "I  can  ...  I  can  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"And  it  was  Tranter  who  killed  Christine 
Manderson.  .  ."  the  inspector  said,  almost  to 
himself. 

"It  was,"  said  Monsieur  Dupont.     "He  ad- 


306         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

mitted  to  you  on  the  night  of  the  crime  that 
he  had  known  her  in  America  years  ago.  And 
here  we  have  a  curious  study  in  conflicting 
emotions.  When  he  first  met  her,  he  had 
already  killed  two  beautiful  women.  She  was 
certainly  more  beautiful  than  either — yet  he 
was  able  to  associate  with  her  on  intimate 
terms  for  a  considerable  time,  and  even  to  tear 
himself  away  from  her  at  last,  without  adding 
her  to  the  victims  of  his  madness.  How  was 
he  able  to  do  that?  It  was  undoubtedly 
because  he  loved  her.  He  had  not  loved  either 
of  the  other  two,  so  there  had  been  no  opposing 
emotion  to  his  mania.  But  he  loved  Christine 
Manderson,  and  love  was  capable  of  holding 
the  madness  in  check,  because  love,  in  its  full 
strength,  is  the  strongest  of  all  human  emo- 
tions. Love  is  stronger  than  madness,  and 
ten  times  stronger  than  sanity.  But  after  he 
left  her  the  love  faded  to  a  certain  extent, 
while  the  madness  increased.  Therefore, 
when  he  was  suddenly  confronted  with  her 
extraordinary  beauty  a  few  nights  ago,  the 
love  that  had  faded  was  unable  to  restrain  the 
madness  that  had  not.  And  he  killed  her." 


LAST  TRUTHS  307 

"My  God !"  exclaimed  Copplestone,  "to  think 
that  he  stood  there  with  us  over  the  body  he 
had  torn — and  even  lifted  it  into  my  arms — 
without  so  much  as  a  quiver." 

"He  was  not  capable  of  remorse  or  regret," 
Monsieur  Dupont  returned.  "If  he  had  been, 
he  would  have  killed  himself  long  ago."  He 
paused.  "There  remain  now  a  few  points  of 
my  own  part  in  this  affair  to  tell  you,  and  we 
will  then  ask  the  doctor  for  his  statement." 

"Before  you  do  that,"  said  Doctor  Lessing, 
bluntly,  "I,  for  one,  am  curious  to  know  who 
you  really  are,  and  how  you  came  to  take  such 
a  large  hand  in  the  whole  business." 

"My  connection  with  the  whole  business," 
replied  Monsieur  Dupont,  "is  a  long  story. 
I  have  already  told  it  to  Inspector  Fay,  and 
I  will  tell  it  again  with  pleasure  when  all  the 
more  important  statements  have  been  made. 
As  regards  myself " 

Inspector  Fay  took  upon  himself  the  con- 
tinuation of  the  sentence. 

"Up  to  a  few  years  ago,"  he  said,  "Monsieur 
Dupont  was,  under  a  certain  pseudonym,  the 
most  brilliant  member  of  the  French  Secret 


308         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

Service — and  was,  in  fact,  admitted  to  have  no 
equal  in  the  whole  of  Europe." 

"A  gross  exaggeration,  my  friends,"  pro- 
tested Monsieur  Dupont  He  waved  the  in- 
spector to  silence.  "When  I  came  to  London 
last  week,"  he  told  them,  "I  came  knowing 
that  John  Tranter  had  killed  two  women.  I 
had  known  that  when  I  returned  from  America 
six  months  before.  You  can  imagine  the  diffi- 
culties in  front  of  me  then.  I  was  to  prove 
that  an  English  Privy  Councillor,  a  well-known 
and  highly  respected  man,  was  in  reality  a 
madman  who  was  responsible  for  two  of  the 
most  dreadful  crimes  that  had  ever  been  com- 
mitted. I  had  never  seen  him,  but  fortunately 
he  was  in  Paris  at  that  time,  and  I  had  no 
difficulty  in  making  his  acquaintance.  By 
extreme  good  fortune,  I  was  able  to  render 
him  a  service  in  the  streets  which  placed  him 
under  an  obligation  to  me.  I  observed  him 
carefully,  only  to  find  him  to  all  appearances 
the  sanest  and  most  level-headed  man  I  had 
ever  met.  But  there  was  one  thing — he  shut 
himself  away  completely  from  the  society  of 


LAST  TRUTHS  309 

women,  and  he  avoided  all  places  where  beauty 
was  to  be  found  in  any  form.  But  I  was  so  far 
from  any  proof.  My  next  step  was  to  test  my 
own  belief  that  his  madness  was  an  inherent 
disease,  and  to  do  that  I  employed  inquiry 
agents  in  this  country  to  discover  whether  there 
were  any  records  of  such  a  case  in  existence. 
It  is  only  two  weeks  since  I  received  informa- 
tion from  them  that  a  woman  named  Mary 
Winslowe  had  died  in  an  asylum  from  that 
very  kind  of  madness,  forty  years  ago." 

"That  is  true,"  corroborated  the  doctor. 

"I  came  to  London  immediately.  While 
following  up  my  clues,  I  renewed  my  acquaint- 
ance with  Tranter,  and  pressed  him  to  act  as 
my  cicerone  in  London  society,  hoping  to  be 
able  to  entrap  him  into  a  situation  that  would 
lead  him  to  betray  himself.  And  he  took  me  to 
Richmond.  What  happened  there,  you  know. 
Though  he  knew  when  Christine  Manderson 
first  came  into  the  room  what  the  outcome 
would  be,  he  was  unable  to  tear  himself  away. 
And  in  the  garden  she  forced  herself  upon  him. 
He  tried  to  resist  her,  but  his  madness  over- 


3io         THE  CROOKED  HOUSE 

came  him.  That  is  the  explanation  of  the 
absence  of  a  cry  for  help,  which  once  I  stated 
to  be  the  key  to  the  mystery.  If  she  had  been 
walking  along  that  path  to  the  house,  she 
would  have  had  time  to  cry  out,  no  matter 
how  quickly  the  assailant  had  sprung  out  at 
her.  But  she  did  not  utter  a  cry  because  she 
was  already  in  the  arms  of  the  assailant,  com- 
pelling him  to  a  passionate  embrace,  and  with- 
out doubt  it  was  a  simple  thing  to  strangle  her 
silently  in  that  very  position." 

"Good  God!"  Copplestone  shuddered. 

"His  account  of  how  she  had  asked  him  to 
find  Mr.  Copplestone,  and  tell  him  she  was  not 
well,  and  of  how  he  had  left  her  on  her  way  to 
the  house,  was  a  succession  of  ingenious  lies 
which  could  not  be  disproved.  That  is  my 
story,"  concluded  Monsieur  Dupont.  "The 
next  most  important  point  at  the  moment  is 
that  James  Layton  is  cleared  of  a  charge  from 
which  he  could  not  possibly  have  saved  him- 
self." 

"Layton  will  be  released  with  full  honors 
to-morrow,". the  inspector  said. 

"And  I  think,"  added  Monsieur   Dupont, 


LAST  TRUTHS  311 

"that  there  will  be  another  matter — not  un- 
connected with  a  young  lady  named  Jenny 
West —  upon  which  we  shall  have  to  congratu- 
late him — and  with  very  good  reason." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
CONCLUSION 

HALF-AN-HOUR  later,  when  the 
doctor's  statement  had  been  made, 
Copplestone    and    Mrs.    Astley- 
Rolfe  stood  together  in  the  flower- 
laden  garden. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  new  man,  "I  brought 
you  here  to  witness  my  deliverance.  Yester- 
day, when  you  had  left  me,  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  put  an  end  to  my  life.  To-day  I  am  free. 
The  cloud  has  rolled  away.  I  am  fit  to  keep 
my  promise — if  you  wish  it  kept." 

She  smiled  up  at  him  through  happy  tears. 
"If  I  wish  it  kept!"  she  whispered. 
"By  Jove!"  Copplestone  exclaimed,  "I  be- 
lieve in  every  miracle  that  has  ever  been  re- 
ported, suggested,  or  hinted  at,  from  the  first 
hour  of  the  world!" 

THE   END 
312 


A     000  032  358     4 


